


You He Did Not Fail

by extraordinarily_ordinary



Category: The X-Files
Genre: Angst, Case Fic, Episode: s0108 Ice, Episode: s02e25 Anasazi, Episode: s03e17 Pusher, Episode: s04e13 Never Again, Episode: s05e01-02 Redux, Episode: s05e07 Emily, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Jealous Fox Mulder, Post-Cancer Arc (X-Files)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-04
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:06:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 43
Words: 85,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25717768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/extraordinarily_ordinary/pseuds/extraordinarily_ordinary
Summary: Five months after recovering from cancer, Scully abruptly left Washington — and Mulder — for a position at the LA field office. Mulder never understood why. Two years later, he'll have his chance to find out.
Relationships: Dana Scully/Other, Fox Mulder/Dana Scully
Comments: 342
Kudos: 547





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fanfiction; please factor that in to your expectations. 
> 
> Also forgive that there are certain modern conveniences at play in this (like smart phones and Philz coffee), simply because I forgot how we lived without them. 
> 
> The title is taken from the Robinson Jeffers poem _To his Father_ (1934).

Deputy Director Dana Scully stands with her arms crossed in the large conference room of the Los Angeles field office, watching as her assistant Mark plugs her new laptop into the overhead projector system. She peers over his shoulder trying to get a sense of the process, wishing she could have figured it out herself. Scully doesn’t like looking like she needs anyone’s help, especially in front of subordinates, and especially from a man — even if it is a man who works for her. 

Agents file in, murmuring quietly amongst each other around the center table, extricating their own government-issued laptops in preparation for her presentation. Annoyingly, a pang nervousness blooms in her stomach. This is her meeting — her case — and as of three months ago, she is the number three agent on senior staff. Despite whispers that she was promoted for the optics of gender diversity, Scully knows better; she’s been here just two years, and in that time has played a critical role as the region’s — perhaps the country’s — most well-regarded pathologist, serving simultaneously as a doctor, a scientist, and an investigator. She’s led and closed two high profile serial murder cases in 18 months, which isn’t something even the Director himself could say. 

Granted, serial killers — with their predictably non-supernatural trail of hard evidence — had been far easier to track down than the perpetrators to which she’d become accustomed. They didn’t shape-shift; they didn’t squeeze themselves through chimneys. After the X-Files, solving plain old violent crime feels like running a 5k after years of running marathons. 

And so yes, her nervousness annoys her. It’s irritatingly illogical that she feels the need to impress the agents who now report to her — most of whom she hasn’t found particularly exceptional. She runs her tongue over her lower lip and sighs audibly.

Mark looks up abruptly, sensing her displeasure. He’s been with the FBI for just under three months, since Scully hired him to work as her assistant. He’s six years out of college but has the energy of an undergraduate, is extremely efficient, well organized, and about ten times more tech savvy than she would ever be. But she sometimes worries he takes the job a bit too seriously; his previous work as an NBC Studios executive assistant must feel comparatively lightweight now that his new boss has him proofing Powerpoints of bloody murder scenes.

He’s staring at her, expectant. She closes her eyes and shakes her head apologetically. “I’m sorry. It’s not you.”

“Okay,” he says, unphased, and turns from her. “You’re ready to go here,” he indicates the computer screen bearing the presentation title slide and hands her a file folder containing a roster of attending agents. She smiles her thanks and he jogs to the back of the room to dim the lights. He jogs everywhere, never walks, and she appreciates that sense of urgency. 

After graduating from Stanford with bachelor's degrees in Anthropology and American Studies, Mark Taylor spent four years on the fringe of the entertainment industry before coming to work for Scully. She liked him immediately at his interview; he was respectful and eager, spoke concisely and with impeccable grammar, and he was young enough to still think he might do some good in the world. Despite her orders to stick to an eight-hour day, he always got into the office before her and left after she did, regardless of what her schedule was like that day. He is 6’2”, wears trendy suits and clean, solid-colored ties, nice shoes, and always has some sort of sweet smelling product in his well-groomed, sandy colored hair. She is 75% sure he’s gay. 

Scully stands beside the podium, not quite behind it yet as it’s still three minutes to nine, glancing over the roster. She’d called in for consult two agents from Albuquerque who had worked on a similar case five years ago — though it was “similar” in the loosest sense of the word. She makes a mental note of their names for later.

Scully has eight victims total: four couples murdered over a year and a half, all solidly in the upper class demographic, having come from as far south as San Diego and as far north as Thousand Oaks. All victims were shot in the head while sleeping; nothing was taken from their homes and no sexual element was apparent. While each homicide case was unusual in that no clear motive was discernible, the cases hadn’t been linked to a single perpetrator until recently; they spanned multiple jurisdictions and forensic evidence didn’t match anyone in the system. Eventually a detective in Ventura County had spoken with a colleague in San Diego at a conference, and they found out they were both working cases where strange symbols were found carved into a nightstand at the crime scene. Neither knew if the symbols had been there before the murder, but after calling around, two more cases in Southern California were connected by the nightstand carvings, bringing the body count to eight. 

Yet there was no distinguishable modus operandi — at least as far as Scully could see. Victims ranged dramatically in age, physical appearance, their careers, and lifestyle — even in sexuality: one of the four couples was lesbian. She urgently needed a profile. 

She’d called Skinner to ask for a behavioral analyst on loan from Washington, knowing that even if by some chance her former partner was still doing profiling work on the side, Skinner wouldn’t be so tactless as to assign him. She scans the second column on the spreadsheet looking for “HQ” and then slides her eyes left for the agent’s name. _Special Agent Daniel Hayes_ , it reads. She doesn’t recognize the name. She hopes he’s good.

At 8:59 only one seat remains vacant. The tented card bearing the names of the attendees reads ‘SA Daniel Hayes.’ She wonders if something has gone wrong, and no one will be making it from Washington after all. Her eyes flick to the clock at the back wall, then she shrugs it off internally. She could have Julie, her appointed second on the case, go over everything with him whenever he arrives. She jots down a reminder on the roster with her pen, then clears her throat and moves to welcome her team. 

She’s on slide #65: a graphic crime scene photo of the final set of victims. She’s explaining that DNA from this scene matched the same male profile collected at the other scenes, and that ballistics matched the weapon to the one used in the other murders. “As with the previous three murders, no neighbors reporting hearing gunshots or any other suspicious noises.” She hears but doesn’t see the door open and snick shut. Not wanting to draw attention to the latecomer, she takes only a quick glance up as a lanky frame enters in shadow and flops into the empty chair at the back of the table. In her periphery she sees him swivel to face her. 

Her breath catches in her throat for a fraction of a second, and heat shoots like a bolt from her gut to her cheeks. _No_ , she thinks, _it can’t be_. She swallows hard, insists to herself there’s no way, and moves on — though later she catches herself anxiously fidgeting with the cross pendant on her necklace. 

Another twenty minutes and she’s wrapping up. Mark has already snuck over to the light dimmer on cue as though he’s a stagehand waiting for a call from the stage manager. He must have memorized the presentation. _He’s probably too good for this job_ , she thinks. When the lights come up, her eyes narrow momentarily as they adjust to the room. Mark begins handing out binders he assembled containing evidence, resources, and team member positions. She deliberately and stubbornly refuses to look in the direction of her ghost. Is she actually afraid it might be him? _That’s ridiculous_. 

Or maybe she’s afraid it won’t be.

“Questions,” she prompts after a sip of water, her eyes focusing on the window in the back left corner of the room. There is an uneasy silence. “Well, if I truly covered it all, we can proceed with breaking into teams. You’ll see on your schedule that I’ll be meeting with teams individually in my office throughout the day, starting with those from the various county labs. Incidentally please give the technicians a day to get organized and sync up before—”

Someone clears their throat and speaks with a voice rough from disuse. “I uh, know I came late to the party, but I do have a question about the carvings shown near the last victims. Slide 65.”

At his voice, Scully freezes. A cold sweat breaks out over her palms. 

“Was the meaning of those symbols discussed?” he asks.

Reflexively she opens her mouth to answer but finds no words emerge. Jesus, she is so paralyzed that she can’t even bring herself to look up.

To her great relief, Julie answers after a pause. “The carvings appear on the nightstands of all four couples, and we have yet to determine their meaning. I’m sorry, are you the profiler from Washington?” In spite of herself, Julie shoots her boss a discreet, sideways glance. 

“Yes,” Mulder says. “For now, at least.” He responds to Julie but his eyes are locked on Scully, who shows him only her profile. "I apologize for my tardiness. I was assigned last minute and this was the earliest flight I could get,” he mumbles hurriedly, then shuffles uncomfortably in his seat. “But those symbols look like Elder Futhark — or maybe something derived from it.” 

“Sorry?” Julie replies, cocking her head. The other agents who had begun packing up stop to listen. 

Mulder is looking over the photos in the binder. “They uh, look like some are inverted, or maybe stylized, but I’m pretty certain. It’s a runic alphabet,” Mulder elaborates. Half the agents stare at him confusedly, the other half rifle through their own binders to take a second look.

“Um, alright, we should begin looking into that,” Scully finally manages with unfocused eyes, closing her laptop decisively. Everyone takes this as the signal to finish packing and get to work. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees Mark approach Mulder and shake his hand, then hears Mark explain to him that the behavioral analyst is scheduled to meet with Deputy Director Scully at 11 immediately after the labs get their orders. “I’m sure she’ll go over what you missed then,” he says assuredly. Without seeing, she feels Mulder’s eyes are still on her. 

Scully self-consciously runs a trembling hand through her hair and worries her lower lip between her teeth. The fine strands of hair at the base of her neck are wet with nervous sweat. Her internal monologue runs wild and rapid. _Why would Skinner do this? Why would Mulder agree?_

She manages to unhook her laptop and slip it into her bag, but drops a file folder, spilling its contents all over the floor. 

“Excuse me,” Mark says quickly, already walking toward Scully. He kneels down next to Scully, who shields her reddening face behind the podium.

“I’ve got this, you go ahead to your office. I left a yogurt and a cup of Philz with oat milk on your desk,” he says, giving her a reserved yet triumphant smile. 

She looks up at him, delightedly surprised. Philz is everyone’s favorite coffee place, but there’s only one location in LA and it’s far out of her way.

“Believe it or not they moved, and now they’re actually in my building on the ground floor,” he explains while restacking her scattered papers, “It opened five days ago and I think I’ve already spent half my paycheck there,” he jokes. 

Scully’s mind is already wandering off as she stares blankly at the floor. Mark’s forehead creases. “Are you ok?” 

She startles at the question. “Yes," she exhales. “Yes, sorry, I heard you. Um, thank you for that.” He nods and continues to reorganize the file. She likes that he doesn’t feel the need to lavish concern on her. He’s always all business and never takes anything personally. It’s exactly what she needs. 

When she stands and straightens her dress, she sees the room has been vacated by everyone but Julie. _Thank God_.

“You’ve got ten minutes before the first breakout,” Mark calls after her and Julie as they walk toward the door. 

Scully stops abruptly. “Julie, could I bring you in for these meetings? It would be good to have you there.” 

“Yeah, of course.” 

Scully looks at Mark and he nods, acknowledging he’s heard. 

“I’ll walk you to your office,” Julie offers.

Relief floods through Scully. She’s been dreading the thought of walking out into the hall alone — or at all — and she has the faint suspicion Julie has picked up on that. As they exit, Scully keeps her eyes downcast, their heels clicking in step on the tile floor. 

Julie Owens quickly became Scully’s favorite colleague in LA. She’s young, only 28, and is objectively attractive: bright green eyes and wavy blonde hair always tied in a high ponytail. She stands a mere inch taller than Scully. Scully had an immediate affinity with her — this petite woman in a sea of men, and a scientist, no less. Julie holds an advanced degree in Biophysics from Yale, reads medical journals for fun, and has zero social life to speak of. She is everything Scully could want in a friend — which, admittedly, isn’t exactly what they are. Julie probably thinks of her more as a mentor. But Julie stops by to chat almost daily, and they have even gone for drinks after work a number of times. More relevantly, Julie is the only person who has an idea — however vague — about the life Scully left behind when she moved to LA.

Scully hazards a glance up and catches sight of the bright green coffee cup in Julie’s hand. “Seriously? You went to Philz and didn’t get me anything?” she quips in a half-hearted attempt to sound lighthearted. Then she pauses. “How did you even have time for that? Mark just told me they moved practically across the city from your place.

Suddenly Scully remembers she has her own cup of Philz coffee waiting on her desk — from Mark. She thought she _may_ have picked up on something between the two of them, but Scully was more certain he was interested in men.

Scully looks at Julie, who averts her eyes and nervously tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear, her cheeks sporting a tinge of pink. _Interesting_ , she thinks. 

Julie changes course, lowering her voice. “The profiler from Washington,” she whispers. “There’s no way that’s—” 

“Yesss,” Scully hisses, indicating she does not want to talk about it in the hall with other people around. 

“Jesus fuck,” Julie mutters to herself, shaking her head. “Who let that happen?”

As they take the next right into Scully’s office, Mark jogs up behind them and holds the door open over their heads. He takes his seat behind his desk in the outer office. Scully notes the lack of typically friendly banter between Mark and Julie, and watches him shuffle the papers on his desk in no discernable fashion to avoid making eye contact. 

She examines Julie, who is staring guiltily at Mark’s bright green coffee cup while anxiously picking at her lower lip. Scully’s eyebrow raises; her certainty over Mark’s sexulaity drops from 75% to 35%.

It catches her off guard, but Scully feels a giddy thrill at the thought of Mark and Julie getting together. She can’t help the small smile that tugs at the corner of her lips. For one blessed second she even forgets about their out-of-town guest. 

Scully makes for her inner office and Julie follows after her quickly, closing the door behind her. 

“Ok, Dana, about the coffee—”

Scully huffs out a laugh and crosses her arms. “Hey. Two young, intelligent, attractive people working in such close quarters? It’s shocking it didn’t happen sooner.” Unbidden, her memory projects a flash of Mulder’s hand cradling the back of her head, her hair slipping through his fingers.

Julie looks scandalized, as though she was planning on making a perfectly innocuous excuse for how she and Mark ended up together this morning. “Look. I would have said something, but it’s new. Well no, it’s— not new actually because it’s not anything. I didn’t even think he was _straight_ until last night, I mean _you’re the one_ who said— and then—” 

Scully cuts her off, putting up the flats of her palms. “Don’t. You don’t own me an explanation.” She pauses. “Though I wouldn’t mind hearing about it later,” she concedes as she takes a seat behind her desk. 

“Have you talked to him recently?” 

Scully’s brows knit. “To Mark?” 

“No, to Mulder.” 

Scully inhales. “No. I haven’t talked to him since before I left Washington. And as you know, it was not on the best of terms.” Julie nods, her face unreadable. 

The intercom buzzes and Mark comes over the line. “Deputy, everyone is present for your first meeting. Should I send them in?” 

“Please,” she replies.


	2. Chapter 2

Scully has spent the better part of the hour staring at the second hand of the wall clock, dreading the loss of each minute as it ticks toward 11. She’s letting the conversation happen around her, catching only glimpses into the work she should be leading. Luckily, Julie appears to be typing thorough notes. 

“So, we have our marching orders,” says a lab tech from San Diego whom she doesn’t recognize. He stands and extends his hand to Scully. “It’s an honor meeting you. Your work is very well known in our circles.” Scully stands and gives him a tight smile, shaking his hand. As the lab techs move toward the exit, Scully feels her heart beating rapidly in her chest; she wonders if everyone can hear it, or if it’s just her.

“Oh,” says one of the women from Ventura County, and she turns back to Scully. “Our clearance. We forgot to mention that our badges don’t work to access the labs here.” 

Julie cocks her head, confused. “That should have been taken care of by this morning.”

“It’s fine, but it would be great if we could get access sooner rather than later so we can get started.” 

Julie stands. “Of course.” She looks at Scully. “I’ll take them to see Amy. She can get it squared away right now.” 

Scully balks. “Wait — no — can’t Mark take them?” 

Julie wears a bewildered expression on her face. “I— He could, but he’ll need an agent assigned to the case with him in order to—”

Scully reddens, afraid she is making a scene. “Right. Of course. Sure,” she says, waving them off.

Finally, Julie figures it out. After the others leave, she whispers hastily, “Shit. I’ll be back ASAP. I’m sorry.” She rushes after them, shutting the door behind her.

* * *

Julie turns from the closed door and scans the outer office. Everyone else from the meeting has stepped out into the hall. She glances around until her eyes land on the man in the rumpled suit sitting in the far corner. He has his reading glasses on and is staring at a page in the binder handed out earlier. To the average person, he might look like he’s concentrating on the content. But to Julie, who is good at her job, he’s clearly faking it. His eyes stare unmoving at the page, and his right knee bounces restlessly.

Mark stands. “Hey, Julie,” he murmurs quietly. “Are you taking lunch today? We should probably tal—” 

“Not now, Mark,” she snaps, but she’s instantly contrite. She may not be sure how she feels about last night, or how he does, but she should not behave this way. “Sorry,” she whispers. 

“It’s just that you left before— and I wanted to make sure—”

“Later, I swear,” she promises him. She looks back at Mulder, who is now studying them from across the room. “Can I borrow your pen?” 

Mark hands it to her and she scrawls onto his notepad: _Keep him out here for five minutes if you can._

Mark doesn’t understand why, but he does as he’s told.

* * *

Blessedly, Scully is somehow graced with a few minutes of alone time before Mark’s voice comes over the intercom.

As she waited anxiously, she’d checked her reflection twice, reapplied lipstick, wiped it off, looked down at her black boatneck sheath wondering if it was too form-fitting… then angrily berated herself for acting like a goddamn fool.

“I have Agent Mulder for you.”

“Great, thanks.” Scully steadies her shaking hands beneath her desk. 

She can’t bring herself to stand in greeting, much less look directly at him as he enters. He closes the door behind him but remains close to the threshold, as if waiting for permission, shuffling his feet. His hair stands up messily in parts, and his suit is noticeably wrinkled. He shoves his hands in his pockets and looks down at himself, assessing.

“I look terrible,” he mumbles, then looks up at her. “And you look fantastic.” He tries for a smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Typical Mulder and Scully.”

She doesn’t smile back. Instead she stares just past his left ear, trying to think of what to say — as though if she came up with anything, the words would do anything other than catch in her throat.

He doesn’t step farther in. 

“Scully… Look, I’m sorry about this. I really am. Skinner called me just last night and told me I had to be on a flight out here by morning. I— I didn’t know— or rather, I wasn’t sure….” he trails off weakly. 

Finally, she meets his eyes. Her chest seizes at the familiarity of him, at this surreal situation where he’s here in her office, close enough to touch. In this new world of hers that she painstakingly built from the ground up, there’s no place for him to exist; it simply won’t compute. 

She can smell his aftershave layered over the scent of a sleepless Mulder just off a cross-country flight — a scent she’d breathed in countless times while drifting off on his shoulder, that would envelope and ground her after whatever horrors they’d just beat back. If she were standing, her knees would give.

He studies her with an intensity that causes a flush to creep up her neck.

“It’s fine,” she says, too breathless for her liking. “Please, have a seat.”

He hesitates only briefly before walking over and dropping himself clumsily in the chair across from her, shifting in a vain attempt to get comfortable. His legs are too long; he should scoot back, but he worries about how she’d perceive that. 

“I never took you as someone who’d hire a boytoy secretary,” he deadpans, and she’s caught so off guard she actually laughs out loud. That rare and coveted sound causes emotion to swell within him. 

“Mark?” she chortles, a broad smile on her face. “Oh Mulder, he’s definitely gay,” she assures him, though she’s conscious she’d revised that assessment only an hour ago. 

Mulder shakes his head. “Uh, no, he definitely is not.” 

Scully cocks her head, questioning. 

“He and your number two there have something going on. Or at least, he wants there to be. You should see the way he was staring at her during your presentation. To be fair to her, I don’t think she even noticed.” 

Scully smiles affectionately. “That sounds like Julie."

“I can see why you two get along.” 

Scully’s smile falters and she looks down at her desk, groping for a new topic. “Are you still on the X-Files?” she asks, recovering. 

He nods slowly. “But I’ve been taking on a lot more profiling for ViCAP than I used to. I guess it can be nice to leave the basement.” 

Scully ignores that, unsure if he intended it as a dig. She wants to ask if he has a new partner, but she finds herself unexpectedly fearful of the answer. He tells her anyway. 

“Skinner has sent a couple of poor souls downstairs… to try and fill your shoes.”

A beat. 

“Have any worked out?” she finally manages. 

He shakes his head, and they lock eyes for a brief moment.

Mulder clears his throat. “You’re clearly doing well here,” he says, no malice in his words. “Not at all surprising. But I heard about that last case — the Williams one. You were shot.” He studies her. 

She nods. “I was in the hospital for two weeks.” 

“I know.” His expression is grave, almost vulnerable.

“I’m fine. Fully recovered,” she assures him with a stiff smile. “So,” she says, exhaling and glancing away at her laptop screen. “Where did you come in this morning? We can start by going over what you missed. I’m actually—”

“Why did you leave?” He asks so softly she almost doesn't hear it.

Scully gapes, her mouth open mid-sentence. A suffocating silence descends on the room. Her throat is suddenly so tight she can’t even take a breath to respond.

“Mulder,” she chokes, “this isn’t—”

“I know,” he cuts her off. He pushes himself up from his chair and heads for the back wall, running his hands roughly through his hair, beginning to pace. “I know it’s not the time, it’s— it’s not appropriate, or fair, or relevant, or whatever it is you’re going to say. But I was just so, I mean, I— I’m—”

He stops in his tracks, his hands on his hips and his head turned up to the ceiling, trying to will coherency. “I am so fucking terrified that if I don’t ask now, I’ll lose my nerve. And Jesus, Scully, the way it was, the way it still is for me— I couldn’t face myself if I didn’t at least make some effort to try and understand—”

The intercom buzzes. “Deputy Scully, Agent Owens is back. Should I send her in?”

Mulder slumps and rubs his hands roughly over his face, defeated.

On the other side of the door, Julie is breathless, leaning on Mark’s desk. “Fuuuckkk you sent him in? How long was I gone?” 

He glances at this watch. “Eleven minutes.” She rolls her eyes at his precision. “Okay what the hell is going on with you? Is something happening in there?”

A buzz, then Scully’s voice comes over the line. “Yes, please.”

Julie smooths down her hair and tugs at her blazer as she opens the door and sweeps into the room. She looks around. Mulder is brooding, arms crossed, one shoulder leaning against the back wall. The tension is palpable. _Yikes_ , she thinks. 

“Agent Mulder. I’m Julie Owens,” she says a bit too brightly. “Nice to meet you.” She offers him her hand, which he shakes half-heartedly. 

“Julie will be my second on this case,” Scully says, as if they hadn’t just discussed it. Scully looks pointedly at Mulder in warning: personal conversation time is over. “Thank you for coming all the way down from DC,” she says to him, her tone formal. 

Julie takes a seat at Scully’s desk and Mulder reluctantly pushes himself from the wall, shambling back over toward them. If he wants any chance of getting honest answers out of Scully later, he sure as shit couldn't make a scene in front of a junior agent. 

“Not a problem,” he exhales tiredly as he falls back into his chair.


	3. Chapter 3

_It could have been harder_ , Scully thinks. _It_ should _have been harder_. But once they start discussing the case, they fall back into a familiar routine. Julie hangs to the side and busies herself taking notes. At one point, as she and Mulder lean over a map spread across her desk, Scully realizes she actually forgot Julie was even there. _As long as I can avoid eye contact, this might work_ , she tells herself.

At noon, Mulder stands, his mind racing through everything they just discussed. That familiar look of focused determination is back in his eyes. Scully can almost see the puzzle pieces tumbling around in his head as he chews on his lower lip. 

“This one’s tough, Scully. To be honest, I almost don’t know where to start. There’s so little to connect them.”

“Better get to work then,” Scully says, a quirk at her lips. 

Back in DC, Mulder's heart hasn’t been in it for some time now; he’s lost track of what it feels like to commit himself to the work. He can’t bring himself to give a shit about a single case, and yet he still can’t sleep at night. He’s been living in a waking dream or a kind of fugue state, sliding deeper and deeper into depression, weighed down as if held underwater and unable — or unwilling — to fight it. 

If in the end nothing else comes of this trip to LA, he thinks, at least he can say that for a moment, he remembered how it felt to be invested. And he can even say he made her laugh.

“I’m gonna head out and visit the last crime scene,” he tells Scully, shrugging his jacket back on. “I want to get a feel for the place.” 

Scully stands, nodding, and Julie follows suit. “Give it till the afternoon though,” Scully instructs. “Forensics went back yesterday to do another round and they’re still wrapping up. They should be done by 2:30.”

“Until then, feel free to set yourself up in the small conference room down the hall on the left,” Julie says. “We’ve arranged cubicles along the walls for the out-of-towners.” 

“We can walk you there,” Scully offers, opening the door to the outer office. She freezes mid-stride. Whatever relief she’d eased herself into over the past hour evaporates. Chris stands across from Mark, their heads angled toward each other as they speak in hushed voices. 

At the sound of the door, the tall man with dark hair and chiseled features turns and smiles at Scully. Mulder notes his royal blue, lightweight bespoke suit made of the kind of wool and silk combination that costs enough to have a subtle sheen. He’s wearing a ‘Visitor’ badge and loafers that would seem casual if you didn’t know they were Berluti. 

Scully blanches, looks over at Mark. “Did I have lunch scheduled?” She asks, a hint of panic in her voice.

“No, no,” Chris assures, taking a few steps forward to her and placing a brief kiss on Scully’s cheek. 

At the ease of the gesture, Mulder’s insides plummet so quickly his equilibrium capsizes and the walls begin to spin.

“Hey Julie, good to see you,” Chris smiles warmly at her before turning back to Scully. “I had a morning meeting at the club so I thought I’d drop by and see if I could persuade you into an impromptu lunch. But Mark here reminded me today is not the day for that.” 

“No,” Scully murmurs, barely audible. “It’s not.” 

“It’s fine,” Chris brushes it off. “There’s a new fusion place down the street that’s been getting great reviews and I thought I’d take Mark. I promise to get him back here in 45.” 

Julie’s eyes narrow suspiciously, darting back and forth between the two men _._

“Take your time,” says Scully. 

As the two men walk out the door, not even acknowledging Mulder, Chris calls back over his shoulder. “Oh Dana, don’t forget I have that dinner meeting tonight at Morimoto’s. I’ll be home on the later side. Don’t wait up.” 

The glass door closes with a thud. It’s a few long seconds before Scully realizes that only she and Julie are left on this side of the door.


	4. Chapter 4

_Xx Then xX_

The first time it happened, she was teetering on the edge of death. 

She walks into her dark bedroom to find him waiting for her. She’s been chasing shadows for so long that she can barely believe he registers. _A lie to find the truth_ , he says, and if she would have hesitated before, now she has no energy left to resist, no time left on her clock for morality or consequences to factor in. 

As he rises to leave, his right arm already slipping into the sleeve of his leather jacket, she feels cold guilt spread through her at the memory of her afternoon oncology appointment. _Tell him,_ she thinks. _He deserves to know._

“Mulder, there’s something….” She falters, thinking that her voice already sounds like an echo of something long gone. He halts, eyes brimming with concern, and pulls his arm back out of his jacket, going over to her where she stands leaning against the arm of the sofa. She crosses her arms, unsteady under the weight of everything she’s withholding. He lifts a hand and brushes her cheek with his thumb. 

“What is it? Is something wrong?” 

_Everything is wrong,_ she wants to say. Instead, her eyes fall and she inhales a deep breath. She’s Catholic; she has ample rehearsal with confessions, and yet the words won’t come.

 _Now isn’t the time, maybe._ She thinks, backpedaling. _He’s already in the middle of so much._ How can she possibly tell him she’ll be dead in a few weeks? Despite her most valiant effort, tears begin to sting her eyes. 

When she finally manages to look up at him, instantly she knows she can’t do it. She can’t do any more harm to this poor man. She concedes defeat easily, wraps her arms around his neck, and he responds by launching himself resolutely into her embrace, gripping her tightly. 

“It’s going to be fine, Scully. This will be over soon—”

But his unfortunate choice of words causes a sob to escape her lips. Alarmed, he turns his head to kiss her temple. “Shhh,” he tries, his heart ripping open violently at the sound of her despair. He kisses her cheek, the corner of her mouth where a tear has caught, his own tears coming freely now. She is so frail in his arms, as though she might dissolve and float away if he ever lets her go. 

“We just have to get through it,” he soothes, “and then we will fix this.” He punctuates “this” with a kiss between her eyes, where her tumor grows.

His lips are pressed to her frontal sinus and she can see the tendons in his throat flex as he swallows, disconsolate with guilt. God, she _is_ tired — too tired to stop herself. So she brings her hands to the back of his head and lays her own kiss on his neck, her lips wet with tears. Her tongue peeks out to trace the line of his jugular.

He stiffens, but she goes on as if he didn't. She wonders momentarily if it’s even possible to make a bad decision when you won’t live long enough to face it. She drags hot, open mouthed kisses down the line of his clavicle, her fingernails scratching lightly through his hair at the base of his skull. 

“Scully?” he whispers horsley against her forehead. He’s already hard, pulling his hips away from her in shame and confusion. A torrent of fear overtakes him. “Scully, what—”

She captures his mouth with hers, swallowing his questions and his inhibitions in one move. It’s soft at first, but then it isn’t. 

He cups the back of her head, control slipping rapidly, his fingers winding in her hair as he prods her mouth open with his tongue. _This isn’t right_ , warns a voice in the back of his head, but all he cares about in this moment is the revelation of how she tastes and the overwhelming relief that comes with the thought that she might actually, finally want him back. 

His heart aches like it will burst as her hands reach for the hem of his shirt, cold fingers slipping under and traveling up his bare sides. He shivers, grits his teeth.

“Wait,” he chokes as an unexpected gust of self-possession hits him. His eyes are squeezed shut, his breath labored. If he looks at her he won’t be able to stop himself. “What is this? What are we doing?” 

She doesn’t answer, and so eventually he relents, opening his eyes to search hers… but he can’t make anything out. Her eyes are as unreadable as ever. She shakes her head at him slowly. 

_What does that mean?_ he wonders gravely, his abilities of deliberation fettered by lust. _She doesn’t know? Or— or is she saying this means nothing?_

She steadies her eyes on his. She can see he’s fumbling frantically to determine her intent, but she’s made bold by her secret: none of this will matter in a month when she’s cold in the ground.

She should tell him she loves him, that he’s the best thing that ever happened to her, that he shouldn’t use her death as a reason to live out the rest of his years as some vengeful, hateful shadow of a person. She should tell him to keep to a regular sleep schedule after she’s gone, eat fewer simple carbohydrates, stretch his tibialis posterior for the full three minutes before he plays basketball so he won't do permanent damage to his ankle. To make friends, find a woman to love who isn't forever slipping away beyond his grasp. 

Instead, she silently glides her shaking fingers across his cheek, and he turns to kiss her fingertips. His thumb traces circles at the base of her neck. 

He pulls back abruptly, a look of renewed determination on his face. “Scully, I need to say this. You need to let me say it.”

But she can’t stand to hear any declarations. Not this close to the end.

She hastily covers his mouth with her own while reaching down to grasp him through his jeans. His intended proclamation is replaced by a low moan and a jerk into her hand. Her kisses are urgent, rough. He’s scrabbling at her blouse, tugging it harshly from her slacks as she lifts his shirt up over his head. Suddenly, he can’t get inside of her fast enough. He’s unsteady, dizzy with need and with the strain of holding back; he’s loved her for years, wanted her longer. 

His fingers clumsily work to unbutton her top, but they’re trembling too severely to make swift progress, causing frustration to build inside him. He yanks at the fabric so unintentionally hard that the final two buttons pop off, rolling under her coffee table. She gasps as he sinks to his knees, her hands tangled in his unkempt hair while he pulls her soft slacks too easily past her sunken waist and bony hips. He feels sadness and indignation creep up behind lust at the glaring evidence of her waning health. He sucks ruthlessly on her hip, kisses her hollow stomach, dips his tongue into her belly button. 

He sits up on his knees and rids her of her bra, then dives to wrap his mouth sloppily around her left breast. Scully falls back, collapses against the arm of the sofa she’s been propped against. He kneads her right breast with his hand while his salivating mouth sucks on the other, moaning deeply and rolling her nipple between his teeth. 

She smooths his hair down, cradles his skull against her chest. He cannot believe this is them. He cannot believe he waited this long. He hooks his index fingers into the elastic of her panties, sliding them down to her ankles.

Out of nowhere, the profundity of the moment bowls him over. If they do this, if this is some ill-advised pity fuck and he never gets to do this again, he might actually go mad. She whimpers at his hesitation, willing him on; impulsivity wins, and he easily beats back the doubt. 

He tells himself that once _has_ to be better than never. _And if it’s not_ , the reckless part of him urges, _you can deal with it later._ Right now, he needs her.

He grabs for her ass, lifts her and sits her down more squarely on the sofa arm. She braces herself on her arms behind her, and he spreads her knees gently. 

“Wait,” she breathes out. 

_Shit_ , he panics.

“I — I can’t — since the chemo, I can’t get—” 

He doesn’t make her finish. He shuffles his knees closer until he’s nestled between her thighs. “Relax,” he whispers as he places a reassuring kiss to her inner thigh, rubs his stubble-clad cheek against the soft skin there before running a finger over her slit. She’s right; she’s dry. His heart breaks a little and he licks his fingers generously, leans in, and spreads her folds before laying the wet flat of his tongue on her.

She shudders, gripping his hair painfully between her fingers. “Oh my god, Mulder,” she rasps.

The sound of his name on her lips makes him harder still, and he laps at her more furiously. He glances up, sees her fondling her breast with her own hand. “ _Jesus_ , Scully,” he growls. This is a dream, he knows. In fact he’s sure he’s had this exact dream before. 

He savors the taste of her: sweet and salty and the best thing he’s ever had in his mouth. He slides his middle finger into her, faint at the notion that he’s somehow been granted permission to know this part of her. She clenches around him tightly. She’s getting so wet, so fast. _For me_ , he thinks bringing a hand down to grip himself and relieve some of the pressure. He’s delirious, thrusting shamelessly into his own fist right in front of Dana Scully, the regal, brilliant, enigmatic love of his life.

Without warning, she pulls at his hair harshly, dragging his mouth from her. He resists, straining forward for more, but she calls to him. “Mulder please, _please—_ ” she begs, her voice distorted by want. 

He rises to his feet too quickly and the room spins, all the blood in his head having travelled south. She tugs at his belt buckle, deftly unbuttoning and unzipping despite her own shaking fingers. He watches her hands work, then push down his jeans and boxers. His thick cock bobs up in front of her. _Fuck me_ , he thinks, as she actually licks her lips at the sight. His fists clench.

She grabs him firmly, strokes the silky, searing skin of him only a few times before her mouth descends. His head falls back. “ _Fuck_ , Scully, _Fuckkk_.” He was not expecting this. 

His hands come to her head, but he isn’t rough. He palms her hair gently, looking down at her, mesmerized. He pushes back the curtain of her hair so he can see her face, his cock sliding in and out past her glistening lips, her little hand cupping his saliva-slickend balls.

She’s too impatient to go on. She releases him from her mouth, thinks only briefly of moving to the bedroom but even that seems too far away. She crawls over the arm of the sofa and sits herself up on her knees facing the back of the couch, bracing her forearms against the backrest. He gets the picture, stumbles around the sofa until he’s behind her, hauling her up by her hips. She leans further into the cushions, wrapping her arms around the top and clinging with her hands.

He should ask if she’s sure, or maybe ask if he needs to go slow. He knows he is big and that she is so, so small and tight. He could come just thinking about it. 

But he grips her hips and pushes against her opening with such runaway zeal that he slips halfway in on the first thrust. He bites down hard, willing himself to check his avidity. 

He means to let her adjust, but she whimpers and thrusts herself back to him repeatedly, inching him in deeper, her breasts bouncing with the contact. “More,” she exhales, encouraging him, before she buries her face in the back cushions, chest heaving. Watching her like this, he can’t possibly deny her. Whatever bit of control he has left vanishes. He pushes into her, lets out a deep, primal grunt, then gasps — almost sobs — as he’s finally fully sheathed.

She lets out a strangled cry. “More — Please, I need to feel you.”

“Fuck,” he growls, pulling her farther up on her knees while bending his own to get to the right angle to go deeper. His right hand snakes around her front and finds her slippery clit, pinching it, making her cry out again. Her head lolls back, her neck exposed, and he wants to suck at it, brand her with his mouth, but he can’t without letting her go. So instead he looks down, pushes her ass cheeks apart and watches rapt as his cock disappears in and out of her swollen folds. 

His eyes follow the ridge of her spine, so exposed by a body wasting away. The oroborus at her lower back radiates up at him like a neon sign plastered to a sunbleached wall. A dark image flickers in his mind: her, like this, with that fucking scumbag in Philadelphia. 

He’s suddenly madly possessive, flaring jealousy made worse by the lust rushing through his veins. He slows his hips, thinking of how since it happened, he’s been jerking off every week to the fantasy of her coming to _his_ dark apartment, thrill fucking him instead of someone else. 

He hears her protest his slowed pace, feels the wriggle of her tight ass pushing back to meet his hips, her hand reaching down to reaffix his thumb to her clit. But he vindictively retracts his hand and pulls out of her until only the tip of him remains inside. He wants her needy, desperate — the way she made him. 

He traces a slip-slick thumb over her tattoo with excruciating leisure. She stiffens beneath him. 

She turns to meet his eyes over her shoulder, but she finds that now, he’s the unreadable one. She releases her grip on the sofa and sits up on her knees, leaning back into him. He has to bend even lower to keep himself inside of her, unwilling to let her go. She brings her left arm behind her, wraps it around his neck and coaxes him closer, pressing his chest into her back. “Mulder… When I was with him, I could only think of you.” 

At her words he feels his heart wrench. God, he loves her. He kisses the side of her face sloppily, licks her throat, then pushes her forward until she’s back in her position. He resumes plunging into her with renewed vigor.

“Tell me what you thought about,” he urges, “when he was inside you.” 

Her face is pressed back into the cushions. “You— Holding me down— over your desk,” she says between gasps, her voice unlike anything he’s ever heard before. 

He leans over, pinning her down with his body, and whispers in her ear. “It’s _our_ desk. You own everything of mine, Scully.” 

She flips her head to the side to look at him. He presses his sweat-moistened forehead to hers, pushes himself so far inside her that his balls press painfully against her. “You know that, don’t you? You’ve known it all along.” He drives into her hard. “Even if you didn’t want to admit it.” She stares at him wordlessly, dazed.

He pulls himself back up and the room spins. He’s not sure how much longer he can last. It’s a miracle he got this far. He reaches back in front to her clit, and it meets his fingers with each thrust from behind. “Come for me, Scully.” 

She lifts her head off the sofa and he can hear her even over the sound of the blood rushing in his ears. He hopes her neighbors can hear, too; he wants this moment to exist in the world for someone else, anyone else, fearful he really is dreaming. 

Finally, he feels her tense and shudder. She cries out his name. Scully is coming and he is inside her, he thinks — for once, disbelieving. 

* * *

  
  


After, she sits naked on her sofa while he redresses. He kneels in front of her, his hands cupping her face. “I have to go,” he whispers, immense regret evident in every part of him. She nods, and he kisses her softly, lingering. He leans his forehead against hers. 

_Tell him_ , she tries to convince herself one last time. _You can’t not. Not after what you’ve just done._

He hesitates. “Scully, I—” 

“I know,” she assures him. He looks into her eyes and sees that she does. She doesn’t say it back, but he’s okay with that. What she gave him tonight is enough. For now.

So he nods once, kisses her a final time. “I will see you soon,” he promises. 

But the next time he does, she’s behind glass in intensive care.


	5. Chapter 5

_Xx Now xX_

Mulder has commandeered a small cubicle in the corner of the war room. His jacket is draped over the back of the chair and his sleeves are rolled up. Even in the winter and with the AC running, the LA weather is stifling. Or maybe he’s feeling squeezed out for some other reason. 

He’s chewing on the end of his plastic pen and holding a crime scene photo up, but he’s not really seeing it. _I wish I had a last name_ , he thinks. If he had the guy’s last name maybe he could look him up, find out more about him. 

_What would that do_ , he asks himself with disgust. _She’s already fucking living with him_. 

It’s been two years. Two years, and he can’t remember the last person he willingly exchanged even three sentences with, whereas she’d completely moved on. But what did he expect? Didn’t it make sense for the person who walked out without looking back to have a head start?

He puts the picture down and presses his palms against his tired eyes. He needs to wake up. He thinks he saw a coffee machine somewhere. 

As he lumbers down the hall, he hears two familiar voices. This Chris guy, and Scully’s assistant. They’re speaking in those same hushed voices from earlier. He slides behind the vending machine across from Scully’s office. 

“Mark, seriously — I wouldn’t worry about it. She’s so much like Dana and it took her a year to warm up to me. And it’s a stressful time for them; I wouldn’t read too much into it,” Chris assures Mark. They stop in front of Scully’s office door.

“Listen, please don’t mention it to Dana. Julie would kill me.” Mulder ventures a glance past the vending machine and sees Mark looking down, his hands in his pockets, scuffing a spot on the tile floor with his shoe. It’s so Charlie Brown pitiful it’s endearing. "How is it, by the way? Now that she’s moved in?” Mark asks. 

Chris sighs. “It’s good. It’s fine. I get the sense she really does need her own space a lot; it’s not just something she told me to put the issue off.” 

Mulder flashes to the few short weeks things had been good between them, when he’d walked into her bathroom one morning to find she’d picked up a blue toothbrush for him at the store. It sat freshly unwrapped, next to her pink one, in that little silver cup. 

“Well like you said,” Mark replies, “it’s a stressful time.” 

_What would they know about it_ , Mulder sulks, stopping just short of rolling his eyes like a middle schooler.

“Right. I’d better let you go,” Chris says at a normal volume. “Could you let Dana know I'll text her when I leave dinner?”

“Sure. Thanks again for lunch. And good luck with the thing in New York.” 

Mulder hears Scully’s office door open and close. He slips out after Chris as he passes on his way to the exit and follows him. Mulder watches from the glass doors and Chris climbs into a xenon grey Aston Martin Superleggera. _Fucking tool_ , Mulder thinks in disgust, even as a thin needle of inadequacy twists in his gut. 

  
  



	6. Chapter 6

_Xx Then xX_

Three months after her cancer went into remission and she still hasn’t brought it up once.

 _Maybe I_ did _dream it_ , Mulder thinks miserably for the 298th time as he sits alone in his apartment following a freezing ten-mile run. The lights are off and there’s terrible porn on mute, flickering against his sullen face. He props his head up against his hand, his elbow braced against the arm of the sofa.

He’s doing everything in his power not to think of her — the way she looked, the way she tasted. He’s getting tired of it — well more specifically, tired of thinking about it until he comes into his own hand, rasping her name into this dark, loney, pitiful cavern he calls his home.

She’d left town a week ago before the holidays, giving herself a full two weeks in San Diego with her family. She deserves it of course, after everything she’s been through. But unreasonably he finds himself… what, jealous? Is that the word? It stands to reason she’d want to reprioritize the people she loves — like her family — after surviving cancer. Perhaps it’s petty, but it bothers him that he hasn’t seemed like one of those priorities. 

He’d tried unsuccessfully to coax her into spending time with him outside of work just as soon as she’d come back to the office. He’d be anxious over it all day, nervousness eating away at him as 5pm approached. In retrospect, it was downright pathetic; it’s like he was asking her to prom. 

“Hey Scully,” he’d try casually, leaning back in his chair. "I taped last week’s _Twilight Zone_ marathon and was going to watch it this weekend. Do you have plans?” Or “I heard there’s a new beer garden on your street with a killer Happy Hour.” He even went so far as to suggest they meet for brunch at a raw food restaurant, the takeout menu for which he had once seen her perusing when she found it tacked to the break room bulletin board. By the end of last week, as she sat in their office reading some medical journal and infuriatingly ignoring him, he’d practically wanted to beg her on his knees to let him get her off with his mouth and no strings attached; _you can read that over my head the entire time if you want_ , he imagined offering. At least it would be something.

And now she’s scheduled two weeks without him — which for him, means two weeks without _her_. It feels like torture. He is 99.99% sure she is regretting what happened between them — and probably more so with each second that passes, if Bill has anything to say about it.

When she calls him from California and asks him to come, he is worried, sure, but he is also relieved. She needs him, and she is even willing to admit it. _If she doesn’t want me to love her_ , he lies to himself, _I can live with it._ As long as she needs him in her life in some capacity, he can be happy with that. He can, he can, he can. He can.

But the next week with her ends up almost as painful as watching the cancer devour her alive. This time, grief does the devouring. Her stoic and unwavering devotion to a daughter who wasn’t meant to be astounds him, cuts him open, makes him weak with sorrow. He wants to hold her, or kill everyone who has ever wronged her — anything, to make her better. No matter what he does, misery piles up before her eyes, and he stands in the middle of it.

Worse, she knows about her infertility. He’d been so preoccupied with everything that came after he’d discovered her extracted ova that he’d almost forgotten all about it. Immediately, he’d had the gunmen find someone to test its viability. As was so often the case, it was not the result he hoped for — but it simply wasn’t a priority at that point. Back then, he needed to keep her alive; that was all that mattered. 

It was self-centered and stupid of him to forget. But he had to admit, even if he had remembered, he’s not sure he would have told her. What good could it have done? When she was sick, the news ran the risk of giving her less to fight for, of devastating her further. And then when she got better, her color returning and her smile coming more easily, he was too self-serving to jeopardize his daily interactions with this reborn version of Scully. After everything they’d been through, he _needed_ to be with that Scully for a while — the one who believed in miracles, who believed in him. 

He would tell her one day. 

But now it seems she’s found out on her own that she’ll never be able to have children. She knows that fact, but she doesn’t know about the ova, or that after hearing they were no longer viable, Mulder couldn’t bring himself to dispose of them, instead deciding to pay monthly storage fees to a fertility clinic in Bethesda. The fees were worth the peace of mind that came when, in his more hopeful moments, he wondered _what if_.

Now, before his eyes, she is given a chance at motherhood only to have it snatched away. He isn’t sure how many times you can expect someone to be torn apart and then successfully pick up the pieces. He is forlorn, terrified for her, terrified for _them_. She should really get the fuck away from him and the X-Files. He should tell her that, but he is so, so selfish; he knows he never will.

On the red eye back to Washington, she sits next to him, her eyes glassy as she looks out her window over the city lights, watching as they recede into the distance along with her hopes of having her own family. He reaches over and closes his hand over hers, circling his thumb in her palm, trying to offer whatever comfort he can. She keeps her eyes on the window. 

After a long while, when only dark can be seen below, she speaks. “I was so afraid of dying,” she whispers. 

His heart twists painfully and he pulls her to him. She lets her head rest against his chest. "And then when I lived,” she mumbles against his shirt, "I was afraid of doing that.” 

“What do you mean?” he asks softly, and she looks up at him. 

“Because of what happened. Between us.” 

He doesn’t know what to say so he says nothing, nods his head once. 

“It was easy to take that step when I thought I was going to die.” He closes his eyes, fearful that this is some fucked up version of a breakup speech. He forces down his unspoken rage that she’d kept the severity of her cancer a secret from him — that she’d instigated that night at her apartment without bothering to tell him that she, unlike him, had nothing to lose. 

“I think…” she continues carefully. “I think I was— I _am_ — afraid... of really letting this happen. Of what that would mean. Of how hard it would be to make something like this work.” He opens his eyes and looks at her. “Sometimes — when you disappear, run off on me — I wonder if I even know who you are. I trust you with my life, Mulder,” she says, cupping his cheek and he leans into her touch. “But I don’t know if I can trust you with my heart. Or if I even trust myself... with yours.” She pauses, considering. “And worse, just imagine...” she inhales a shaky breath. “What happens to us — to our work — if we fall apart?” 

He nods again, sensing she isn't done. 

“But I can’t—” Her breath hitches and tears spill from her eyes. He smoothes her hair, tucks an errant lock behind her ear, encouraging her to take her time. “I can’t imagine anything feeling worse than what I feel right now,” she nearly sobs. "Not just losing a daughter, but the only child I will ever have.” He presses his lips to her forehead, hushes her as she struggles to steady her breathing.

She waits until she stills before pulling back to look at him. “So I’m not afraid of us anymore, Mulder. If I could survive that, I think I can survive anything. And I’m just… too tired to go on like this: silently miserable, continuously denying myself — all the while, wanting you.” 

He feels like he’s had the wind knocked out of him. He forgets, then reminds himself to breathe. _She wants me_ , he thinks in wonder. _Talk about the unexplained._

"If this is what you want…” she squeezes his hand, “then I want to try it, too.” 

He grips her hand in response and presses it to his mouth, kisses her knuckles fiercely before realizing she’s still waiting for him to answer. He tries to resist it — thinking it might not be appropriate — but he can’t suppress the grin spreading across his face.

“Scully… I’ve wanted it for so long, and so much, that I can barely remember ever wanting anything else,” he confesses in awe.

Two miracles in three months. He is flying. 

  
  



	7. Chapter 7

_ Xx Now xX _

Deputy Director Scully finds herself looking through the glass in the door to the war room. It’s early evening and the traffic in the halls has thinned out significantly. She’s been staring at Mulder’s back for nearly five minutes. He’s hunched over his desk, laptop open, glasses on. She hadn’t meant to end up here. 

She weighs whether or not to go inside. She’s felt awful since Mulder bolted from her office directly after Chris and Mark. By the time she’d gathered herself enough to look into the hall after him, he was gone. 

It’s foolish that she feels so guilty, she thinks. After what he did, she owes him nothing. Yet here she stands. 

_ Can’t I just say a simple goodnight to him?  _ God, she wants that. But what if he wants to talk to her? Does she want to talk to him? 

Her phone vibrates and she looks down to see a new email. It’s from him. 

She opens it and begins to scan it. An abstract for a comprehensive profile. 

At the bottom, he adds a note: _ I’m still struggling to fill this out, but I think I can get you something to work with in a day or so. I can continue to revise it as more comes in; I don’t have to stay in town for that unless you think there’s a need for a profiler on site. -M. _

_ Just business, then _ , she thinks, her heart dropping in spite of her best efforts — in spite of what makes sense. She runs her finger over the “M” at the bottom of the email, then re-pockets her phone and turns toward the exit without a backward glance.

* * *

Scully is on the phone with Assistant Director Skinner as soon as she gets into her car. 

“Deputy Director Scully, it’s good to hear from you.” 

“Is it?” she asks. “After what happened today, I could have sworn you had it out for me.” 

Skinner sighs heavily on the other end, and there’s a pause. When he doesn’t respond, she echoes his sigh.

“What the fuck were you thinking, Walter?” she asks, the fight going out of her. She pinches the bridge of her nose as a headache threatens.

“Look,” he begins carefully. “I had someone else from ViCAP lined up to come down, I swear. But his wife went into early labor yesterday. Call me crazy — or desperate, I don’t know — but I took it as a sign.”

“What does that even mean?” 

“Agent Mulder — he hasn’t been himself. He’s not good, Dana. Not at all.” Scully feels a weight pull at her insides. “I’ve been doing what I can to help him — as a supervisor and as a friend. He was missing for two months after you left. Do you know that? We couldn’t find him anywhere.”

“Why didn’t you call me?” She demands, horrified. 

“He sent an email before he went to— well, wherever the hell he went. All it said was ‘She won’t know; don’t bother contacting her.’ He was reprimanded for going MIA, obviously, was put on probation for a year. When he came back he looked like he’d lost 50 pounds and aged ten years. To be honest, I’m surprised he came back at all. I’ve tried three new partners, I’ve mandated counseling, I’ve thrown extra funding at him, I approve all his travel requests — not that there are many. He’s severely depressed, Dana. Nothing is working. I thought….” 

Scully slumps in her seat, covering her eyes with her hand. “You thought he might need closure.” She felt him nod without needing to see it. 

“But it’s not your place, Walter. I’m sorry, but it’s not. You can’t put me in an uncomfortable position when I’m working a case where people _are dying_ just because you want Mulder to feel better,” she rebukes. 

“I know,” Skinner replies firmly. “But I figured — I  _ hoped _ — he mattered enough to you that  _ you’d _ want him to feel better, too.” The words sting. 

Skinner goes on. “Look, I never asked what happened between you two. It’s none of my business and LA wanted you, so who was I to stand in your way. But back then he would have done anything for you, Scully — would have died for you a thousand times over. You didn’t see the way it was when you were taken, or in the hospital with cancer. You never had to fully witness what he’d do for you.” 

He’s silent for a moment, but then he goes on. “He’s broken, Dana. And I’m sorry, but you’re the only one who might be able to fix him. Besides,” he exhales, “he’s the best behavioral analyst ViCAP has. He’ll be a valuable asset.”

“That’s fair,” she concedes, her voice wavering with suppressed emotion. She wills herself the courage to make the offer: “I’ll do what I can.” 

  
  



	8. Chapter 8

Scully sits on the patio breathing in the cool, salty breeze off the water. From her vantage point, she has an unencumbered view of the water. Chris says he purchased this house during the last real estate market downturn, but she suspects the mortgage would still be twenty times what she could afford. The back living room wall is entirely glass and slides fully open to the patio, like it is now. She doesn’t like that anyone on the Ocean-Front Walk can see into their home, but she supposes the kind of person who buys a place like this wants to be seen. 

Scully has only been living in this house for a month, but she truly hadn’t expected to feel like a hotel guest at this point — though she can’t imagine why she didn’t anticipate it. Everything, from the furniture to the wall art to the bed sheets, were here when she moved in. 

Her first year in California, she rented a fully-furnished apartment equipped with mass-manufactured, nondescript abstract art. She had her mom donate or sell all of her old furniture in DC, and she was overcome with anxiety at the prospect of making choices about her new life like what color sofa she wanted, or what shape dining table best suited her, or what framed images she wanted to stare at day in and day out. All those inconsequential, seemingly small decisions felt too demanding of whomever she truly was at her core — and at the time, she wasn’t sure who that was anymore.

Now, here in her new address, she feels like some kind of strange, permanent guest. She spends hours out here, sometimes in the middle of the night when she can’t sleep, watching the regular churn of the ocean. She listens to the white noise of the waves, thinking the house does have its advantages; after moving to LA, one of her only sources of comfort was the sea — and she couldn’t possibly live any closer to it now.

The slate outdoor fireplace crackles while she swirls her glass of pinot noir. She should really ask before she opens Chris’s bottles. _Who knows how much this costs_ , she wonders idly.

She’s relieved that Chris is out late tonight. She wanted time to think, but instead, the fire throws light on old memories: Mulder and her lying naked on the floor in front of her fireplace, her head lying on his chest as he tucks a throw blanket around her; candles burning on her bathroom floor, her nestled between his legs in the tub while he licks a bead of water from her neck; her sitting on her living room carpet in sweats, him absentmindedly massaging her neck while they silently read through a file by the light of the fire. 

She pulls her robe closer around her at the vulnerability those memories stir. 

A chime from the security system alerts her to a visitor at the driveway gate. She’s caught off guard; no one comes over unless Chris is home. She sets her glass down on the dining table as she passes it and pads over to the door, leaning in to check the security cam. Mulder sits in his rental car, both hands gripping the steering wheel tightly. 

She inhales slowly, steadying herself. The sooner she faces him, the sooner it will be over. At least if it happens tonight, she can use Chris’s impending return as a non-negotiable time limit for the conversation. She buzzes him in.

She watches on the screen as he uses the remote to lock his car, looking up at the three story home. His trench coat whips in the ocean wind, and he wears a grim expression. She wonders if she’s somehow imagined this intimate apparition from her past into her present.

When the door opens, he takes her in: her lips are tinted red with wine, her hair damp from the shower — or a bath, probably a bath — her makeup wiped clean. She’s tugging her beige silk robe tightly around her. She looks just like she does in his dreams. It’s everything he can do not to take her face in his hands and kiss her. 

“How did you know where to find me?” She asks, not unkindly. 

“You’re on file. Easy enough.” 

She nods. After a beat, she steps aside, inviting him in. 

She closes the door behind him and walks in the direction of the open-concept kitchen. “Can I get you anything?” she asks, and yet another hairline fracture forms in his heart at the professional detachment in her voice.

“No,” he says quickly, but then sees her refill her wine glass. _Maybe to take the edge off_. “Actually I’ll have a bit of what you’re having if that’s okay.” She drains the remainder of the bottle into his glass.

Mulder follows her out onto the patio. He stands leaning against the glass barrier, the wind against his face. “This is some view,” he mumbles, knowing no FBI salary could set you up here — knowing _he_ could never set her up here. He uses the moment of silence to ready himself.

She doesn’t speak, just sits on the outdoor couch waiting patiently for him to join her. Eventually he takes a seat next to her. He downs most of his wine in one gulp, vaguely aware that it’s probably too expensive to drink this quickly. He thinks of his father’s dusty wine cellar, bottles piling up — the occasion never quite important or happy enough to warrant the opening of one. 

Mulder places the glass on the coffee table and shrugs off his coat. He’s wearing the same rumpled clothes he had on at the office sans tie and jacket, the top buttons of his dress shirt undone and his sleeves shoved up haphazardly. Stubble darkens his face.

As she studies him impassively, he realizes he might be more terrified than he’s ever been in his life. 

Her eyes shift and transform as they reflect the fire. She waits for him to say something. He can’t bring himself to think it’s fair for her to expect him to go first; he may have been the one to come to her tonight, but she was the one who left him without so much as a goodbye. 

He tries anyway. 

“Scully…” he trails off, finds that her name is all he can muster. 

Goosebumps rise over her flesh at the sound of him speaking her name with so much need.

“Mulder,” she starts when it’s clear he won’t go on. “I talked to Skinner earlier. I know this wasn’t your doing.” 

He nods slowly. 

“And I’m… I’m glad you’re here. I mean, I appreciate it. We need all the help we can get, and I do recognize that you’re the best — regardless of whatever may have happened between us.”

“But—” he swallows. “But what _did_ happen between us, Scully?” 

She’s been apart from him for so long she’d almost forgotten he might not know. 

“It was one week,” he says, the words tumbling forth. “Just six days that I was gone on that ViCAP consult. When I left everything was fine — it was better than fine.” He reaches out a trembling hand to graze her chin so that her eyes meet his. “Weren’t we happy?” There’s a sheen to her eyes, and she blinks rapidly, looking away. He proceeds slowly, cautiously, afraid to say the wrong thing. 

“I was happier than I ever thought possible. And then I come home and my stuff is in a box on my living room floor. I find out you’ve been reassigned — that you _asked_ to be reassigned. Your number is disconnected. Until I heard it directly from your mom, I thought— I thought…” he finishes lamely, knowing what he thought doesn’t matter. It didn’t turn out to be true anyway.

Memories roll in like waves to the shore, one after the other: calling her on repeat as he made his way home from Seattle, filling her voicemail with increasingly paranoid messages; running up the stairs to his apartment two at a time, hoping to find her asleep on his couch, only to find a box of his stuff instead; dumping it on the floor and rifling through it for a sign from her; storming into Skinner’s office, demanding to talk to her, yelling at him that he was a liar; pacing at the gunmen’s, so certain that she’d been kidnapped until they hacked HR and confirmed she requested and signed the transfer herself; staggering into her apartment after days without sleep to find her mom packing boxes, eyes brimming with pity; crawling into her bed, leaking silent tears onto her pillow until he finally fell into a restless slumber from which he’d never quite wake. 

“Please,” he begs. He cups her cheek with his right hand and she lets him. “I need to know what went wrong.” His eyes shine with welling tears, making it impossible to restrain her own. 

She’d decided earlier that evening that she would be upfront with him — finally tell him that she knows everything, and that there was no coming back from it. She had every right to react the way she had. She had no reason to feel guilty.

But now she thinks she can feel her heart tearing in half right along with his, as though someone had stacked two pieces of paper before ripping them down the middle. 

She screws her eyes shut in vain as a tear slips out. He leans in and catches it with a soft kiss to her cheek. “Mulder,” she warns, but her voice is so quiet he could pretend not to have heard. He nudges her nose lightly with his, breathing her in.

“God, I miss you so much,” he rasps, wretched. “You have no idea.” 

He winds his hand around the back of her neck and brings her forehead to his. 

“Mulder—” she tries again, but he can’t help himself; she’s the glass of water after months in the desert, the only lifeline in a riptide of misery. He kisses her.

Her mouth yields to his and she sighs, his taste familiar and consoling, wrapped in lingering tannins. She forgets about everything in that moment: her obligations to others, but arguably worse, her obligation to herself to keep that sutured wound from reopening, from festering. 

He pulls her closer and she crumbles against him, then tugs him down by the front of his shirt, reclining against the sofa. His right hand slides up her side from her waist to her ribs, and he carefully circles her erect nipple with a quaking thumb. She gasps into his mouth. His hand reaches back down searching for the hem of her robe. He runs his hand up her bare thigh and squeezes it as he comes up for air. He watches her face, her eyes closed and lips parted, as he nudges aside her underwear with his thumb and slides an index finger along her wet slit. She reaches to grip his hand, he thinks to encourage him on. But he presses his lips to her ear, chest heaving.

“Leave with me,” he pleads, _before he comes home_ , he doesn’t say. 

A lightning bolt of shame rips through her as though she read his mind. She pulls away hastily, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand and tugging her robe down.

 _Shit_ , he panics. _Shit shit shit_. “I’m just down the street,” he rushes to explain. “At the Courtyard. Just — just _please_ , please come back with me and we can just talk. We can—”

“No,” she shakes her head, backing away. “No, Mulder.” 

“Scully—” he starts to protest, reaching for her.

“ _No_ ,” she snaps, standing. “I can’t do this, Mulder. I think you know that,” she glares at him accusingly and he reels as if slapped. She turns to re-enter the house and he scrambles to his feet after her.

“Scully, wait. You haven’t— you didn’t—”

She whirls to face him, pointing an accusing finger at him. “This isn’t fair, what you’re doing. I’ve moved on, and, and that was difficult for me, too.”

“How?” he demands. “How was it difficult for you? Because it sure as fuck seemed easy. You didn’t even bother to explain. You didn’t bother to say goodbye.” 

She braces herself against a dining room chair, taking a moment. “Mulder,” she says as calmly as she can, lowering her volume. “Do you remember the night before you left for Seattle?”

He freezes, realizing he’s finally about to get an explanation. Ice floods his veins, and instantly he feels like his inside are falling a long distance. He’s been wrestling with his memories of that night for an answer, turning it over and over in his haunted head for so many middle-of-the-night hours. But in this moment, he’s not sure he wants to know. From now on, he will no longer have the luxury of wondering; from now on, he will know.

He hasn’t acknowledged her question, but she forges ahead anyway. “You had to leave early in the morning for your flight, so we slept at your place. When I woke up, I sorted your mail.” She pauses to search his face for recognition. His brows knit together in confusion and he shakes his head slowly, coming up with nothing.

She crosses her arms over her chest, mostly in an effort to minimize the shaking. “You had a bill from a facility called NovaIVF. It was addressed to me.”

Mulder feels like his knees might give way. His palms break out in sweat as he drags out a dining chair just in time to collapse into it. His head falls, and he drags his fingers through his hair. The silence feels like it stretches on for hours.

Somehow, he finds his voice. “Scully, I can explain that.” 

Anger flashes in her eyes. “I called. They told me my ova was stored at their clinic. There were monthly storage fees and you were paying them. You told them you were my husband,” she seethes. 

“I—” 

“You had _no right_. You had no right to keep that from me. How long had this been going on? How long have you known?” 

“It was— it was right after your cancer diagnosis. I couldn’t tell you,” his voice waivers. “I couldn’t do that to you, Scully. You were so fragile.”

“ _This_ is the problem, Mulder. Right here,” she insists fiercely. "We were supposed to be partners — equals — but you never trusted me to handle things. You treated me like— like I existed just to give you something to protect. This? This was about my life, my body, and you kept it from me.” Her voice breaks then. “How could you ever expect me to trust you again?”

He shakes his head sadly. “I don’t know what to say. I’m sorry. Maybe— maybe I wasn’t thinking straight. I went to a doctor right away, had her assess viability. I just… couldn’t bring myself to give you any more bad news. Not while you were so sick.” 

“Is that what it was?” she asks tentatively. “Bad news?” 

He nods. 

She exhales deeply through her nose and looks away, deflating, fighting a new onslaught of tears. Her eyes focus on the ocean. “How many opinions did you get?” she asks.

“What?”

“Just one?” 

“Yes, I—” 

“So one was good enough to convince you. Then why did you hold on to it? Why bother to store it if you knew they were useless?” 

He bites his lip, struggling for an answer. “I don’t know.”

“Could it be,” she asks, fury mounting again as she advances on him, “that you weren’t sure? That you thought maybe there was a chance?” 

He stares at her blankly, uncomprehending.

“Could it be, Mulder, that you didn’t want me to know there _was_ a chance because _you_ didn’t want that life for me?” 

“What?” he chokes, equal parts horrified and blindsided by her accusation. 

She’s gathering her anger over all her grievances, wildly pulling from all directions and packing it together, whether or not he’s at fault: her infertility; her humiliation at being kept in the dark; having to face her mother from her deathbed; losing her sister; losing Emily; losing time; losing him. Rage snowballs in his direction.

“Tell me something: _after_ the cancer, monthly reminders in the form of a bill showed up at your apartment and what, you didn’t pause for a moment to consider maybe I had the right to know? How many of these bills did you pay while I slept naked in your bed?” She pins him with a glare. “You’re as despicable as them.”

“Scully—” he protests. _That was too far._

“Admit it, Mulder. That’s the real reason you kept this from me. You couldn’t stand the idea of relinquishing your control over me — your, your _monopoly_. You didn’t want me to adopt Emily. Am I wrong about that?” 

The question is rhetorical. She’s in his face now. “You didn’t tell me about the ova because you never would have let me have children, anyway. That would stand in the way of the X-Files, of your work.” 

Incensed, he rises from his chair with such force it nearly topples back. “Last time I checked, you called it _our_ work, Scully. Not mine. And I can’t believe you’d even _think_ that. I loved you more than life itself. There wasn’t anything I’d deny you if it would make you happy. You— you have not _one good reason_ to accuse me of that.” 

But even as he says it, doubt seeps in. “It was a mistake,” he insists with slightly less conviction. “Plain and simple.” 

Scully studies him sadly. “You think you loved me. You needed me for the work, and you convinced yourself that meant you loved me. You wanted to protect me, to keep me safe, because you _needed_ me. But you didn’t respect me — not enough to be honest. Not enough to let me make my own decisions.” She turns away, taking a few steps from him. "What we had — it wasn’t healthy.” 

Rage overcomes him. He stalks over and grabs her by her shoulder. She spins to face him and definitely stands her ground. 

“What about what _you_ kept from _me_ , Scully?” he shouts. “You were _dying_. You were weeks away from dying and I asked and I asked and I _asked_ how you were doing and instead of telling me the truth you distracted me, you fucked me. You fucked me and then let me leave, _knowing_ how I felt — knowing I could walk out of that apartment and never see you again. Knowing what that would do to me.” He’s breathing hard, his jaw clenched tightly. “So what was that? Was _that_ fair? And let me guess, Scully. You kept that from me to _protect_ me, to keep me _safe_ ,” he parrots her words back to her.

She’s stunned, maybe even on the precipice of contrite.

He inhales deeply, takes a moment. When he speaks again, he’s subdued. "You can tell yourself whatever you need to to make yourself feel better about walking away. But I know you’re not stupid enough to believe that.” 

He steps back from her and looks around the house, swaying slightly. He takes it all in, takes his time. His shoulders fall and he drops his head resignedly, his emotional and physical exhaustion hitting him all at once. He rubs his hands over his face. 

“This is a nice place. A nice life you have,” he sighs. “It’s what you deserve, and I’m not going to try and stand in the way of that.” He huffs out a mirthless laugh. “I’m sure I couldn't if I wanted to.” He eyes the door. “Just do me favor. Don’t try to convince yourself I didn’t love you. It’s— it’s the only thing in my life I’ve ever known for sure,” he confesses weakly. “I was selfish sometimes, and I _was_ desperate to keep you safe,” he says, still staring at the exit. “But no one will ever love anyone more than I—” he swallows, emotion constricting his throat. 

Her cell buzzes on the dining table. After a beat she walks over and reads a text message from Chris. “He’s on his way. I need you to go,” she tells him quietly.

He nods, mostly to himself, pulls his keys from his pocket and moves toward the door. He opens it and leans one arm against the jam, facing the open night. “I really am happy to see you doing well,” he mumbles. “I mean that.” 

“I know,” she whispers, studying his back.

After he leaves, she stands on the patio and has the urge to hurl herself into the sea — drown herself and start all over again with none of the memories she has now.

When she turns, she sees he’s left his trench coat. She picks it up, folds it over her arm. She brings it to her face and inhales deeply as the dwindling fire struggles against the breeze, then silently goes out.

* * *

She drains his remaining wine down the sink, washes his glass and lets her thumb idle over the smudge left by his lips. She tucks his coat away in her work bag just before Chris makes it through the door. 

When he kisses her and she holds him back, he already feels foreign to her — like a stranger — and she’s afraid to meet his eyes, sure the sorrow is written all over her face. 

“Any movement today?” he asks. “You know, now that you’ve got everyone in one place.” 

She shakes her head, too tired to elaborate. She shuffles off toward bed. 

“You’ll start again tomorrow,” he tries to assure her as she climbs the stairs, thinking it’s the case.

  
  



	9. Chapter 9

Mulder has his back to the headboard, staring blankly at his laptop screen that’s gone dim with disuse. When he first got to his room, he meant to keep working — to focus on anything other than the last hour, and to finish up this half-ass profile and get the hell out of town as fast as possible. The prospect of staying a minute longer is as unbearable as the prospect of leaving. 

He looks at the bedside clock, which reads 1:20 A.M, then pulls his glasses off and flings them across the bed. _This is pointless._ He rubs his tired eyes, reluctantly pushes himself up and starts stripping for the shower, leaving a trail of clothes on the floor.

He turns the water up so the temperature is hot enough to sting. He does not want to entertain the possibility that she’s right — that he kept what he knew from her because he was afraid she’d act on it. He slumps against the shower wall. Susceptible as he is to think the worst of himself, though, he concedes there’s some form of truth to it. There has to be. 

When she found Emily, he _did_ have mixed emotions. At first he was startled by how fiercely he wanted to protect the little girl. Even if Emily hadn’t brought Scully to her knees, her skeptical eyes and hesitant smile, so much like her mother’s, had done him in. He’d watched from across the room while Scully sat on the cold tile amongst brightly colored wooden blocks, talking quietly with Emily. He’d been trying hard to suppress an emerging, half-formed daydream: Scully like this, a mother to his own child, on the floor of a sunlit playroom in some far away future.

It wasn’t until he testified in her custody hearing that the weight of the responsibility hit him in full. If this worked, Scully would be a parent — not his partner — first and foremost. A dreadful realization reared its head: if Emily lived, if she came home with them and Scully became her guardian, he couldn’t ask — or even want — Scully to continue to work on the X-Files. She’d grazed death so many times that he had a bank of nightmare material for every day of the year. As it was, he could barely live with the risk; he simply couldn’t justify holding on to her if she became a mother, too. 

And yet as quickly as the hesitation crept in, it evaporated when he saw the look on Scully’s face as he carried Emily limp in his arms, sick with fever and in so much pain. 

He sighs heavily. Scully was wrong about one thing: at his core, he _had_ wanted Scully to have Emily — and he wanted Emily to have her.

After the chips fell, as always in the most unfortunate places, the second miracle of the year happened. Somehow, despite all odds, Scully decided to let him love her — and if he really thinks about it now, which he wouldn’t have then, the scales probably tipped from that moment on. He never had to find out how he would feel if, after they got together, she told him she wanted a child. It never came up. But what he _does_ know is how good things were between them — and he guesses he would have done just about anything to keep it exactly the way it was: together on the X-Files during the day, and together in bed at night. He probably would have died before he changed a single thing. 

He really was a selfish bastard.

In the end, it had felt like dying anyway. Since she left, every day was like a slow and meaningless march toward death, his legs weighed down by the memories of how his stomach fluttered when she rolled her eyes at him, of the sound of her breath against his ear, of the feel of being inside her. It has been two years — so, so much longer than they were really together — and yet every morning he still wakes and reaches for her, then finds her gone and mourns anew.

He closes his eyes, face to the shower spray, trying to relive the all-too-brief moment tonight when she let him kiss her, let him touch her. He gives in, only halfway guilty, and reaches down to stroke himself. He imagines that he’d kept his fucking mouth shut and she let him go on — that the biggest struggle of the evening was just keeping quiet as he came inside her in front of nighttime beachgoers.

His cell rings and he startles like a voyeur. He tumbles out of the shower, clumsily throws his wet body over the bed to reach for it at the opposite end, landing face down, his erection flagging. “Mulder,” he mumbles into the mattress, feeling absolutely pathetic.

“It’s me.” 

He bolts up and presses the phone to his ear hard, as though if he lets go of it she’ll disappear, a mere figment of his imagination. 

“Scully?” 

“There’s been another murder. I’ll text you the coordinates.” She hangs up without saying goodbye. 

_Shit_. He digs around in his suitcase, opting for jeans and a light sweater instead of a suit. He is still buttoning his jeans as he hurries out the door.


	10. Chapter 10

Mulder pulls his rental into a spot in the empty beach parking lot. His headlights illuminate the pavement, and against the dark asphalt he can see white sand swirling in gusts of wind off the water. There’s no crime tape, no forensic team in sight — only two beat cops in conversation with Scully a few yards in.

Scully turns to him as he approaches. It could be a scene from any one of their cases passed; neither his face nor hers hints at their last conversation. 

He looks over toward where the waist-high beach grass meets the sand and sees a silver emergency blanket held down by driftwood, a makeshift shroud that the two cops likely improvised. He leans forward and shakes their hands. “Agent Mulder, I’m the FBI profiler on the case,” he introduces. The two men are young, their faces pale. “Where is everyone?” Mulder asks, glancing around. 

One of the cops answers. “The teenageers that found the bodies — they’re on their way to the field office to give a statement. They just left in a squad car.”

“And everyone else?” he prompts Scully, as it’s obvious the others missed the point. 

“On their way.” She hesitates almost imperceptibly. “I called you first,” she admits. 

He nods at her, tamping down rising emotion at her admission. 

He follows her to her car where she hands him a pair of latex gloves and extracts his trench coat from her bag. “You uh, left this,” she says quietly, averting her eyes.

“Oh — sorry. It’s so goddamn hot out here I probably wouldn’t have noticed till I got back.” 

The mention of him going back makes her suddenly sad, but she shows no sign of it.

He shrugs into the trench. “At least it’s cooler at night. It was 35 degrees colder when I left Dulles.”

“I’ll bet,” she breathes, battling her hair back as it flies wildly around her face in the wind. “Seasons. I miss that about DC.” 

“Is that all you miss?” He asks before he can stop himself, but his tone is playful. She graces him with a small smile. He reaches forward tentatively and picks a leaf from her hair. If it affects her, there’s no indication. Scully pulls her flashlight from her jacket and turns to walk back toward the bodies. 

“Why is this couple outside?” Mulder asks, shouting over the wind. “All the others were found in their beds.” 

“I don’t know. All I know is that next to the body there was a piece of driftwood, and a symbol was carved on it. All law enforcement in the area knows to call us right away if they come across something like that.”

They bend down next to each other in the sand as Scully peels back the emergency blanket. A young man and woman in their 20s lay underneath, fully clothed. The pungent smell of marijuana hits them. The man wears ripped jeans and a vintage-style sweater that looks like it came from Goodwill. The woman is dressed similarly, but with long, silky blonde hair.

Mulder pokes a finger at a large arm of driftwood next to the woman’s left arm, peering at the carving. “It’s definitely him,” Mulder mutters as Scully leans in to get a closer look at the bullet wounds.

He stands. She was always the one who could stomach this stuff, not him. He scans the beach. “It looks like these kids were homeless. No other cars in the lot… Whatever stuff they had has to be somewhere.” He pulls out his own flashlight and begins to walk slowly along the tall grass, searching.

Headlights flash and a car rounds the curb into the lot. Agent Owens steps out and slams her door shut. She’s pulling on gloves as she jogs over to Scully. 

Mulder watches as they crouch over the bodies. He gets the sense that this woman might be the one person in LA Scully is comfortable with — besides her live-in boyfriend, of course. He rolls his eyes at himself; so now he’s jealous of the boyfriend _and_ the colleague. 

“You got here fast,” Scully says to Julie.

Julie subtly lifts her chin toward Mulder, who’s resumed searching the grass. “So did he.” Her eyes widen. “Wait, were you guys together?” 

“Of course not,” Scully rushes, a blush emerging at her cheeks. 

Julie nods silently in response, studying Scully’s face. “Well I was still in the office, not at home, so it was a shorter drive.” 

Scully looks at her in surprise. 

“Someone’s gotta do it,” Julie sighs. “Is everyone this fucking lazy at headquarters?” She doesn’t wait for an answer. “So,” she exhales, shifting gears. “This is a new kind of crime scene.” 

“Mulder thinks they might have been homeless.” 

Julie leans in. “No, I don’t think so. See her nails?” Scully looks closer and finds them perfectly manicured. 

“And his watch,” Scully points out, lifting his sleeve with a gloved finger. “That’s got to be an heirloom Hublot. It’s probably worth half my salary.” 

“Plus this sweater looks like garbage but it’s Raf Simmons. My douchebag ex at Yale had one like it. It’s like $700.” Julie wrings her hands together, thinking. “Ok, so they were high, maybe fell asleep, but chances are they weren’t planning to sleep out here in the open,” Julie says, squinting against the current of air and surveying the stretch of beach. “Especially not with this wind.”

“Scully!” Mulder calls from about 50 yards away. They start toward him, their pace slow due to the give of the sand under their feet. 

Julie glaces at Scully. “You guys only use your last names, even with each other? Isn’t that weird?”

“I don’t know,” Scully says, exasperated. “It was all weird. In fact that was by far the least weird thing about us.” She pushes her hair from her eyes. “It’s why I ask everyone here to call me Dana.” 

“I thought you were going for California casual,” Julie mumbles while wrestling her own flashlight out of her jacket. “You can tell me the truth, you know. Were you with him just now?” 

“I wasn’t.” A beat. “I was earlier. He came by the house.” 

Julie nods. “You’ve got a problem here, Dana. He dragged himself around like a tortured puppy all day. It would be romantic if it weren’t so pitiful,” she says, her voice low as they reach hearing range. “What are you gonna do about it?”

Scully shakes her head, at a loss.

Mulder gestures toward the grass. “Back behind that tree. You can barely make it out but there’s a low-profile tent tied to the trunk.” 

Scully narrows her eyes, searching. “Well they clearly weren’t shot there, but there could be something of evidentiary value in it. Plus there looks to be some mud around the tent entrance. We should hang back until forensics gets here in case there are any tracks.” 

Mulder pulls back a couple of steps. “I don’t suppose the park entrance has cameras?” 

“Most parks do in this county,” Julie answers. “The issue is whether or not they’re actually working. I’ll have someone get on it first thing.”

“Oh that reminds me,” Mulder starts suddenly. “Did anyone have any luck translating the runes?” 

Julie frowns. “We’re still working on it, but so far the symbols are too divergent from any runic alphabet to be useful. We’ll get you what we have tomorrow, but I’m skeptical you’ll find anything of value.”

Mulder is chewing on the inside of his cheek. 

“What?” Scully asks him. 

He shakes his head slowly, putting his hands on his hips. “Something is off here, Scully. I know the victim profiles have been all over the place, but this is the first couple not found in a six-plus bedroom house. And it’s a bit of a risk, isn’t it? Choosing a couple sleeping in a public park, a few yards from a parking lot? Anyone could have come across him. It’s clearly not a crime of opportunity,” he says, thinking aloud. “How is he choosing them?”

“That part is your job,” Scully chides. Mulder shoves her playfully with his shoulder. 

Forensics has arrived in the lot and are waving them over. Julie starts in their direction, already feeling like a third wheel.

“We won’t be able to do anything else tonight,” Scully says, turning to Mulder. “You should head back, get some sleep. It’s been a long day.” 

Mulder nods. Scully turns and takes a step but her foot sinks into the sand and she falls into his chest. 

He catches her. “Woah,” he chuckles. “Maybe you’re the one who needs sleep.” He runs his hands up her arms to her shoulders, setting her back on her feet. She looks so beautiful in the moonlight, her face pink from the wind. _What the hell_ , he thinks, reaching out to tuck her hair behind her ear, then boldly running his thumb over her lips.

“What?” She whispers, blood rushing in her ears. 

“Nothing,” he says, shrugging sheepishly. “You look nice.”

Her eyes flick to his lips, and then she can’t seem to look away. Faintly, she registers voices.

“They’re calling you,” he murmurs, looking past her shoulder as someone hauls large lights on stands out of the forensics van. She seems lost in thought, so he takes advantage of it and stands looking at her for a moment longer. He thinks for a split second he sees somewhere in her the possibility of forgiveness. But maybe it was just a trick of the light.

Julie yells Scully’s name again. “Come on,” he says reluctantly. He moves his arm to the small of her back, coaxing her back to the scene. 

  
  



	11. Chapter 11

The morning news displays a chopper view of a forensics team roped off by crime tape. The banner at the bottom of the screen reads “DEVELOPING NEWS: bodies found near Zuma Beach.” 

Mark sits on his bed tying his shoe, one eye on the TV. He spots Julie’s ponytail, whipping in the ocean breeze, bright against her dark blue FBI windbreaker. It prompts him to glance over at the nightstand where she’d left a hair tie. He muses that if she hadn’t left that souvenir, he’s not sure he’d believe it actually happened.

He’s checking his watch and pulling on his suit jacket when he sees a text from his boss: _Hate to ask, but if you pick me up two large Mint Mojito Iced Coffees, I’ll cover you next five cups. I swear not to make a habit of it._

—

Mulder gave up on sleep at around 5:30am, so he’s one of the first into the office the next morning. He picks up a triple latte from the coffee stand in the hotel, but the espresso is burned and it’s so terrible he’s debating if it’s worse to die from drinking it or die from exhaustion. 

After fruitlessly rummaging around the empty breakroom for coffee grinds, he’s back at his desk wondering if it really is easy to find cocaine in LA when Scully reaches over his shoulder from behind him and places a bright green coffee cup on his desk. He leans his chair back and looks up at her. “Oh thank _God_ ,” he groans, tossing his shitty latte into the trash. “This _has_ to be better than the poison I was drinking.” 

“It’s actually better than pretty much everything,” she says, coming around to perch on his desk.

“I love you so much,” he mutters, swiveling his chair to face her. Scully’s face reddens slightly and she hides it behind a sip from her own cup. 

“Sorry,” he mumbles, too tired to be embarrassed. “I’m brain dead until this hits my bloodstream. I can’t be held accountable for my actions.” He downs a long swig from his cup.

“So. We have IDs on the—”

“Holy _shit_ this is good. What even is this?!”

“I knew you’d like it,” she says, smiling, then goes on. “The victims’ wallets were in the tent, so we have names. Chloe Davenport, 23, and Michael Billings, 24. They weren’t homeless.” 

“I knew it.”

“Don’t look so pleased with yourself.” Scully rolls her eyes. “Julie and I figured that out well before you.” Mulder puts his hands up in surrender.

“We called Chloe’s parents this morning. They live in New York. They told us she and her boyfriend graduated from USC the year before last and wanted to ‘live off the grid’ for a couple years before matriculating into business school at UCLA. The plan was to tour the US and camp in her Range Rover.” 

“I don’t understand. They graduated from USC a year and a half ago and only got as far as Malibu?” 

“Well so that’s the thing. They called the trip off a little over eight months ago and came back to LA. Her mom thought she just missed Fred Segal and Ciel Spa, but Chloe insisted the decision was health-related — though apparently Chloe refused to share the details. In fact, Chloe hadn’t spoken with her parents in over three months; they had a falling out when she bailed on her sister’s wedding at the last minute.”  
  
“OK but hold on, you’re not telling me they’ve been living in a tent on the beach for eight months. While she had health issues. And where’s the car?”  
  
“They were renting a condo in Santa Monica for the past eight months, but they had just signed a lease for a place in Bel-Air — I assume because it’s walking distance to UCLA Anderson. Only problem was their lease didn’t start until today. As for the car, we found it on a street near their new address. It was full of moving boxes and had a flat tire.”

Mulder nods, starting to see. “So they left the car and wanted one more night of roughing it before moving next door to the Fresh Prince.” 

“Sort of. Her phone had a calendar alert on it; they did have an actual campsite reservation at Malibu Creek for last night, but it turns out the campground was shut down yesterday after a sewage line flooded. The park employee at the gate remembers them because they were dropped off by a cab — which is obviously abnormal. After they found out the campground was closed, they had to call the cab back. I guess they decided they really wanted that night outdoors, and ended up camping illegally at the beach.”

Mulder is silent for a moment. “How the hell would he know where to find them?” he wonders aloud. “Look, chances are very slim that he just stumbled upon this couple and decided to kill them. He’s too deliberate; he planned this. But all their changes in plans… was he stalking them?” He takes another swig of his coffee, stands, and grabs his jacket from the back of his chair. “Where are their phones now? I’d like to take a look at them.” 

“In the lab. They should be done processing them; I’m sure there won’t be any useful prints, and Julie’s already tracking down the call logs from the wireless provider. They’re all yours.”

“Thanks again for the coffee,” he says over his shoulder as he heads for the door.

“Mulder?” He turns, shrugging on his jacket. She’s studying her hands clasped in front of her skirt. “Your email yesterday. I do have need for a profiler on site. I mean, I’d— I’d like it if you stayed.” She looks up at him hopefully. 

He smiles, warmth blooming in his chest. “I’d like that too.”


	12. Chapter 12

It’s past 7:30pm and she should go home, but she hasn’t seen Mulder return to the office yet. He texted her around 10am that he was heading out to talk to a friend of Chloe’s who lives in the area, then planned to check out their Santa Monica rental and the car. 

She wanted to hear what he’d found out, but not enough to try his cell. He didn’t _need_ to report back to her before calling it a day; he might have already gone back to his hotel. She glances at her clock. _If he doesn’t show up by 8, I’ll go home_ , she bargains with herself. 

There’s a knock on her door. Embarrassingly, she feels nervousness flutter in her stomach. “Come in,” she calls. 

“It’s just me,” says Mark, opening the door. “I have the autopsy reports. You said you wanted them straight away.” He walks in and hands them to her over her desk. 

“What are you still doing here?” she sighs. “You really need to start listening to me when I say your day ends at 5.”

“Right,” he says, looking evasive. “I’m on my way out. I have late dinner plans nearby so I thought I’d finish up some work I’ve been putting off.”

 _Since when does he put things off?_ Scully wonders. “Well, be sure to tally comp time for later.”

She looks past him to the outer office door where Julie is using her back to push her way in, carrying a stack of papers so high she can’t see in front of her. 

“Woah, let me help you with that,” Mark says, sprinting over to her. 

“What are those?” Scully asks, craning her neck to look at Julie as she unloads the papers into Mark’s arms. 

Julie startles, surprised to see Scully. “Oh, I didn’t realize you were still here.” There’s an awkward pause. “Um, these are the phone records from Chloe and Michael’s cells, if you can believe it. And this is just from the last two months. As far as we can tell, they didn’t have cell phones for the first six months after they got back into town. I guess they were trying to stick with their ‘off the grid’ lifestyle plan. Judging by these call logs, that must have been a real challenge for them.” She turns to Mark. “You might as well start running that through the scanner now. It could take all night.” 

Mark leans in, lowering his voice. “Our reservation is in fifteen minutes. I’ve already pushed it back three times.” 

“Then go quickly,” she replies in an exaggerated whisper.

Scully pretends she’s not listening and focuses on shuffling the papers in the autopsy report. Mark exhales resignedly and rushes off into the hall, ostensibly heading for the copy machine. 

Scully looks up at Julie. “Do you want to grab dinner with me? I’m about to pack up.” Scully is a terrible liar — and besides, she’s having too much fun to try and hide it.

Julie frowns and glares at her. “I think you know I have plans. And I think you’re just aiming to make me say it.” 

Scully smiles triumphantly and Julie walks over to slouch into the chair across from Scully. “What are _you_ still doing here? Waiting for the autopsy reports?” 

“Yes.” 

“And Mulder?”

“I guess,” Scully concedes. 

“Let’s make a deal. I’ll be honest with you if you’re honest with me.” 

“I don’t want to make that deal,” Scully whines, picking up an autopsy file to bury her face in, but Julie reaches out and presses it back down to the desk. _She is pretty gutsy for a junior agent_ , Scully thinks. 

“Mark invited me to a Super Bowl party at his condo. His frat boy friends are idiots and made a mess, then subsequently got too drunk to help him clean up. I stayed to help.” She says all of this without expression, as though she’s rattling off the facts of a case. “We ordered delivery and had a lot of wine. At the time, I still _mostly_ believed him to be gay. Then, he kissed me. He’s attractive, and by that point, I was too drunk to behave. So I slept over. I woke up before him and left.” She pauses. “But I’m not an idiot so I stopped at Philz on the way out.” 

Suddenly Julie’s even demeanor capsizes and she covers her face with her hands, groaning. “ _Goddamnit_ he’s being such a little bitch about it and wants to ‘talk’ so now we have to get dinner.” She huffs, collects herself and looks up at Scully. “You go.” 

Scully sighs. “What do you want to know?” 

“I want to know what you want to tell me. And I can tell you want to tell someone something.”

Scully considers this. “Okay. I— I never said goodbye to him. I never told him why I left DC. Or even that I was leaving,” Scully says, cringing, though she’s surprised by how saying it aloud grants an immediate sense of relief. She feels like she’s in a confessional.

“But weren’t you… together?” 

Scully nods. “Only for a few weeks. We were partners longer, though. Four and a half years. We… We went through a lot together.” She looks down. “I’ve never let myself get that close to anyone before. Or since,” she admits.

“What happened?” 

Scully inhales deeply. “He kept something very important from me. Something that was about me — that I had every right to know. I found out and I was furious. And,” she shakes her head, “I was heartbroken. I couldn’t see myself ever trusting him again. The way we were… there was no way I would have had the courage to leave if I confronted him. So I didn’t. I just left.” 

“Shit,” Julie mutters. “What did he say? Last night, when he came over?”

“He wanted answers.”  
  
“And he wanted to get back together.” 

“He didn’t say that.”  
  
“He doesn't have to,” Julie asserts, wincing with pity. She pauses. “And how do _you_ feel? Seeing him now?”

Scully opens her mouth to respond before realizing she doesn’t know the answer.

The outer door swings open and Mark steps in, holding the door open for Mulder.

“Agent Mulder is here to see you if you have a moment,” Mark says, looking between Julie and Scully. 

Julie stands. “I have to go anyway.” 

Mulder moves to the side of Scully’s doorway to let Julie pass, his eyes already locked on Scully. He’s got that needy gaze of a zealot Julie recognizes from yesterday.

“Did you get my email about the security cams?” Julie asks Mulder. “Unsurprisingly they were ‘not operating.’”

Mulder snorts. “When are they ever.”

“Right. I sent a couple agents canvassing to see if any houses or businesses nearby had working cams. I’ll let you know if we find anything.” 

Mulder and Scully watch as Mark helps Julie get into her jacket. “See you tomorrow,” they both say on their way out. 

Mulder is staring at the door after them. “That’s cute,” he says amusedly, then turns back to Scully. “Do you believe me now?” 

Scully rolls her eyes. “Yes. Fine. They’re in love.” 

“I didn’t say that. I said _he_ loves _her_. I don’t know what she wants.” He walks over and drops into the chair opposite her.

“He _loves_ her?” Scully scoffs. “How would you know that?”

“I have ample experience with unrequited love,” he mumbles under his breath while clumsily wrestling off his blazer. 

She ignores this. “Please tell me you found something we can actually use.” She picks up the autopsy report, planning to leaf through it while Mulder fills her in.

“Maybe. Our victim Chloe was pregnant.” 

Scully looks up stunned, then rapidly scans the report. 

Mulder clarifies. “She wasn’t pregnant when she was murdered. She was pregnant when they came back to LA eight months ago. According to the friend I talked with today, that’s the reason they cut their trip short. And she kept all this from her parents, obviously.”

“That explains why she was a no-show at her sister’s wedding,” Scully says. “And so they got back to town eight months ago...” 

“Yeah. She gave birth about two months ago.” 

Scully cocks her head in confusion. “What? She gave birth? Where is the baby?”

“Adopted. Chloe had a trust fund that went liquid when she turned 22, and get this: the friend said she put up _a lot_ of cash to get the baby into a private adoption service.” 

“Private?” Scully asks. “What does that mean?” 

“Oh, did I say private? I meant illegal,” Mulder says, betraying some disgust. “According to this friend, it’s some closed adoption service that administers confidential and undocumented prenatal and labor/delivery care. After the babies are born, they are handed over to the people rich enough to pay for them — basically the highest bidder. The mothers who buy into the agency need serious funds to pay the entry fee, so you can imagine these babies aren’t from the kind of stock you’d find in foster care. Hence the price tag.”

“Why would anyone do that?” Scully wonders aloud, baffled. 

Mulder leans back and crosses a leg over his knee. “On a basic level, I assume the expecting women get some peace-of-mind from avoiding an abortion. And the adopting parties get a baby of privileged — or at least wealthy — parantgage, without the typical wait times.”

“But,” Mulder says with emphasis, “this friend said what Chloe _really_ wanted was privacy. According to Chloe, this agency guarantees that it’s a completely confidential, underground process from start to finish. No record of the pregnancy, birth, or adoption exists — so there’s no way for the offspring to track down their birth parents; no one will ever come knocking for an inheritance check.”

Sadness colors Scully’s eyes. “Wow,” she mutters sadly. Mulder’s heart sinks looking at her. After a beat, he goes on. 

“By the way, Chloe’s friend was very hesitant to tell me all this. She was the only one outside of the couple who knew about the pregnancy, and she doesn’t think Chloe would have told her any of this if she hadn’t been in a particularly vulnerable state when she did. Apparently she was having second thoughts at the time. But the next day, Chloe called and said Michael had talked her down. Blamed it on hormones. She begged the friend to forget what she disclosed — said they ‘could both suffer serious consequences’ if word got out about what they were involved in.” Mulder squints. “Apparently Chloe was way more panicked and emotional about that particular prospect than she was about the doubts she had the night before.” 

Scully’s brow furrows. “This sounds pretty fantastic — albeit not out of the realm of possibility, given what money can buy in America. Can you think of any way at all for us to follow up on this?” 

“I found what I think is a contact for the agency. The same number was both saved in Chloe’s phone and also on a piece of paper in Michael’s wallet, under the unbreakable codeword ‘Labor.’ Anyway, it would be great if we could have an agent call and try for more information — a female agent might be best. It likely has nothing to do with the murders, but it’s fishy.” Mulder considers. “Actually that’s the understatement of the decade.”

Scully nods. “Julie can do it tomorrow.” Then she sits up abruptly. “Wait.” She wakes her laptop and navigates to the autopsy reports for the other victims. “The female victims in the first two murders had cesarean scars,” she recalls aloud. 

Mulder shakes his head, thinking back. “But only the first couple had children.” 

Scully’s eyes on her laptop. She pulls up the autopsy photos of the fourth couple, the two women. She zooms in on the first victim in the couple and taps her screen with her finger. “These stretch marks. This woman was pregnant at some point,” she says, then looks at Mulder, her mind racing. “And this couple also didn’t have children.” 

“ _Shit_ ,” Scully exhales suddenly. 

“What’s wrong?”

“The third couple. Their bodies were already released to the families. It was before we linked the cases.” She’s rapidly typing now, pulling up the case notes, her eyes searching. “It says no indication of previous pregnancy or having given birth…” she trails off, scrolling down, then sighs dejectedly. “That’s what I thought. They were cremated.” 

“But they were also childless, right?” Mulder says rhetorically. 

“I might be able to get more photos from the autopsy. See what I can find out from there.” She bites her lip and writes a reminder to herself on her notepad. 

Scully closes her laptop and her eyes and leans back in her chair, face to the ceiling. “Well that’s frustrating, but this could finally be a connection between all of them,” she says tiredly. Scully’s cell vibrates on her desk. She doesn’t move to look at it. Mulder takes a furtive glance and sees it’s a text from Chris... and that there are ten other unread texts from him. 

He looks up at her, alarmed, but her eyes are still closed.

“I’d better get home,” she says with a sigh. 

He wishes they could stay like this forever, in sync and in the afterglow of having unearthed a hard-won lead. He’s immeasurably sad at the prospect of this case ending, of going back to the X-Files without her. 

“I’ll walk you to your car,” he offers, standing. 

* * *

The evening has dramatically cooled the outdoor temperature. They amble over to Scully’s car, taking their time. He’s stealing sideways glances at her, trying to memorize every feature, already preparing for their inevitable goodbye — for going back to having a continent between them. When they reach her car, she leans her back against the driver side door and looks up at him. He wants so badly to reach out to her, but he resists. 

“Where did you say you were staying?” she asks, and if she’s honest with herself, she knows she’s stalling.

“The Courtyard. In Santa Monica.” 

“Fancy. ViCAP put you up there?” 

He nods. 

“That’s much better than the shitty motels you used to book,” she smiles sadly. 

“Oh I don’t know,” he says, her wistful melancholy infusing him. “It seems a lot shitier when you’re not next door.” Now it’s his turn to smile sadly, and hers to want badly to reach for him. 

Neither says anything for a while, so he bends down to kiss her chastley on the cheek, running his hand down her arm and squeezing her hand. “You’d better go,” he whispers into her ear, and she shivers. 

After she drives away, he stands alone in the empty parking lot for a long, long time. 

  
  



	13. Chapter 13

Julie and Mark are ushered to their table as soon as they check in. Mark is certain the hostess is annoyed with him for changing the reservation multiple times in one evening. He cringes internally; he hates being that guy. 

Julie half expects Mark to pull her chair out for her and is getting ready to roll her eyes, but he doesn’t. She’s surprised to find herself a tiny bit disappointed. 

“This is the place Chris and I came to yesterday for lunch. It was great. I wanted to see the full menu,” Mark says distractedly, eyes glancing over the page. “It’s all shared plates. I’m good with whatever you want.”

Julie is already flagging down the waiter. “Can I get a double manhattan?” She’ll do better with this if she has some alcohol in her. She hasn’t been on a date in years.

Mark looks up, surprised to see the waiter. “Oh. I’ll uh— I’ll just have whatever lager you have on draft.” 

“Actually,” says Julie, stopping the waiter before he can leave. “Why don’t you just bring us your four most popular items.” 

Mark narrows his eyes and sets the menu down. “You have somewhere to be?” he asks, but his tone is good-natured.

Julie takes a sip from her water and pushes back her hair. “I just— moving the reservation so many times. I’ll feel like a real asshole if we’re the last ones here and everyone has to wait for us to finish eating.” After his extraordinarily entitled ex, Mark finds her self-awareness particularly endearing. 

Julie has stopped by his boss’s office multiple times a day since he first began at the FBI. Sure, she was pretty, but so were a lot of women in LA; he’d certainly had to fend off his fair share of coked-out aspiring models in the six years he’s been living here. 

At first, he’d been interested in how unimpressed she was by him — like he wasn’t even there. Frankly, it wasn’t how most women their age treated him. Then, he quickly found himself impressed with _her_ : the way she always seemed to be the last one to leave her desk at night, and the first one in. He’d see her through the windows of the deserted gym when he parked his car in the early morning, running on the treadmill or at the rowing machine.

One day he overheard a crude joke Julie made as she walked out of Dana’s office, and she caught him laughing to himself. She must have decided he was cool, because she started to stop at his desk. She’d make fun of their self-important colleagues, use bad language, and peel the nail polish from her perpetually half-manicured fingers while they talked. On the occasions when she’d have urgent business and rush directly past him to see Dana, he’d been nonplussed to find himself disappointed. As time went on, he’d even find himself a little hurt. 

A couple months back, he was passing a Sunday afternoon at his favorite haunt: a used bookstore with a prematurely greying, draft-dodging proprietor whom you could always count on to act annoyed by customers of any kind. Stacks of books lined not only the precariously leaning shelves, but also the floor, tucked away in corners wherever there was room. 

He was in the Early Modern European History section when someone rounded the corner and bumped into him. It was only in that moment that he realized the woman he often saw sitting in the shop’s rattan chair facing a wall had, all this time, been Julie. He’d never seen the woman’s face, though not for lack of trying; she always had the most curious set of books next to her: _A Practical Study of Argument_ ; a collection of Civil War battlefield maps; an August Wilson anthology; something titled _The Philosophy of Sex_. He’d even taken a chair down the row from her one day just to see if she’d pass by him; he’d ended up stepping out to take a call from his mom, and when he came back, she was gone. 

“Oh my God!” Julie exclaimed, her arms full of books on Renaissance architecture. “Mark? What are you doing here?” She glanced down at his stack: two books on the House of Medici and a book titled _Mirror of the World: A New History of Art_. 

“Uh, same as you, I think.” He indicated the rattan chair in the corner. “Is that _you_ who always sits there?” He actually couldn’t believe the coincidence. He felt like he was caught in a two-star romantic comedy starring Kate Beckinsale.

She narrowed her eyes. “Stalking an FBI agent? Not a good idea,” she warned.

They left the bookstore together that afternoon and like a high schooler, he’d felt a twinge of pride as he carried her books to her car. He probably imagined it, but it seemed like the shop owner’s facade of indifference broke when they approached the register together; Mark _thinks_ he looked impressed to see him with Julie. 

While digging in her bag for her car keys, she asked him if he liked pho. “There’s a place two blocks from here that I always go to after the bookstore.” 

His eyebrows lifted. “Um, yeah. Are— Are you inviting me?” He was caught off guard by the offer; she always struck him as someone who preferred to be alone.

As they walked down the street, her chatting on about the rise in reality television and what that said about society, she’d stopped suddenly next to a ceramic pot outside a swimwear boutique, gasping at the sight of a massive flower. 

“What the hell is that?” She pointed to it, her eyes wide. 

“A dinnerplate dahlia,” Mark answered, going scarlet at the astonished look she gave him. Was it embarrassing that a dude knew the name of a flower? Or was it embarrassing to be embarrassed by that? 

“My mom has those planted every year,” he explained. 

“It’s the size of my apartment.” Julie glanced around surreptitiously. “Cover me. I’m gonna take it.” 

“What?” he sputtered, panicking. “No, Julie—”

“I’m _kidding_ ,” she assured him, pulling him by the arm away from the platner and toward the restaurant. 

The following Wednesday, after spotting a particularly large 10” dahlia at the flower stand on his street, he’d bought it on impulse. He left it in a glass on her desk the next morning, before anyone else had arrived to see him do it.

Nervousness mounted as the day went on and she hadn’t stopped by; maybe she thought he was coming on to her, and she was now avoiding him. But eventually she showed up, casual as ever. She marveled briefly that the flower was even bigger than the one they saw on Sunday, then launched directly into a tirade about how she just read that _The Bachelor_ was the highest rated show that season.

Later, at a bachelor party, his frat brothers were going about their usual routine of harassing Mark over how disinterested he was in getting laid. The truth was, casual sex was never something he could stomach. He had a long-distance girlfriend at Amherst for most of college, and after she dumped him senior year — then cooly admitted to having carried on a two year-long affair with another woman — he thought he might never sleep with anyone ever again. But to put an end to the relentless assault by his drunk friends, he “confessed” he wasn’t interested in the girls who came up to him at the bar — with their cropped camis, tight skirts, and Chanel bags — because he was already interested in someone at work. 

If anything, this made everything worse. Within fifteen minutes, one of his friends — he still wasn’t sure which one — had stolen his phone and emailed Julie an invitation to a Super Bowl party at his place. There was no party, of course, so now he had to plan one. 

He’d been working late one evening when Julie had walked by the office doors, saw him through the glass and came in. She was returning from the gym on the first floor, her face devoid of makeup, dressed in a cropped sports top and running shorts. He tried hard not to glance down at her legs, shifting uncomfortably. She plopped down in the chair near his desk and took a swig from her water bottle.

“The Director’s assistant says she’s going to ask you out,” she informed him.

“She told you that?”

Julie laughed. “Uh, no. She won’t talk to me since I told her practicing yoga doesn’t make you a practicing Buddhist. I overheard it at the gym.” 

The Director’s assistant Brie was a quintessentially gorgeous LA blonde around their age. She always wore too short dresses and too high heels, and to Mark, she was always two shades too tanned for her too bleached hair. She’d been doggedly working to persuade him to go clubbing in West Hollywood with her and her friends. 

Mark made a show of considering. “Last week she told me that _The Secret_ is the most important book of our generation.”

Julie’s eyes widened and she spit out her water in laughter. She managed to cover her mouth but got it all over her chest. Mark handed her a box of tissues, chuckling. 

“Ok, ok, ok,” Julie eked out as she blotted water off herself. “So get this. When my mom found out she had cancer — no, don’t worry, she’s fine now — Brie actually said to me — and I quote: _trust the universe_. I mean what the _fuck_ , Mark?! In what fucking world is that appropriate?” she practically screamed at him through renewed laughter.

“Wait, really? She said the _exact_ same thing to me. Must be her motto,” Mark said, cringing.

“Who do you know who’s sick?” Julie asked, immediate concern clouding her expression.

“Well, no. No. I— she said it after I dropped my bagel,” he admitted.

With each passing day after the Super Bowl Invitation Incident, he was increasingly aware that what started as a mere means to get his friends to lay off ended up manifesting in reality — as if saying it aloud made it true. He’d straighten in his chair, a current of nerves traveling through him when he’d see her reach for the office door handle; he’d even catch himself checking his watch in the afternoon if she hadn’t stopped by yet, worried she wouldn’t be coming at all. 

Then, for two days she didn’t show up once, and he actually couldn’t stop himself from asking Dana if “Agent Owens” was okay. His boss had looked up at him from her desk, perplexed by the question. 

“She hasn’t stopped by like she usually does,” he tried indifferently.

“Oh. Um, yeah, she’s just in Ojai. They’re at some spa for the long weekend,” she said distractedly, turning back to her laptop screen. “Did you need something from her?” 

“No—” he replied hastily, escaping before she could look up and see him red with mortification. 

He actually lay awake at night that weekend fretting over the “they” in the sentence “they’re at some spa.” It was entirely plausible she was in a relationship and he didn’t know. He never asked; there was no reason for it to have come up. Or maybe he just didn’t want to know.

On Tuesday morning, Julie had swept into the office asking if Dana was in, barely waiting for the answer before hurrying past him. That morning the news had come in that eight recent murders in Southern California might be linked to a single perpetrator, and that the FBI would be taking over the investigation. He could see the gravity of it written all over her newly sun-kissed face. He tried not to take it personally that she hadn’t even said hello. 

When she came out of Dana’s office with a file in hand, she stopped next to him and rooted around in her work bag. She extracted a rainbow tie-dye mens tank top and placed it on his desk. “I got you a present on vacation.” 

He was utterly bemused, gaping at the brightly colored pile of fabric. 

“Uh... how was it?” he finally managed. “Dana said you went to a spa?”

“A _spa?_ Fuck no. I went to a yoga retreat because my mom is the absolute worst person who ever lived and doesn’t know the difference.” 

Mark felt his whole body relax with relief. _Her mom._ He picked up the tank top to look at it, suddenly feeling a hundred pounds lighter. _Trust the Universe_ , it read in hideous script. 

When he looked back at her, she was already heading out the door, her brow furrowed in concentration over the open file. “That brand of yoga wear is called _Spiritual Gangster_ , by the way,” she called over her shoulder. “In case you want to buy more.”

It was at that point he knew denying it to himself was a lost cause.

Now, Julie is drinking her manhattan a little too quickly, and with each sip he’s an inch closer to certainty that he’s ruined everything by rushing into bed with her. He hadn’t meant for it to happen and he had no experience with one-night-stands. It may be cowardice, but he decides to save the “where are we” discussion for another time. It’s not the entire reason he wanted to talk with her outside of work anyway.

“I have something I wanted to show you,” he says, pulling a file from his work bag. 

Julie’s eyebrows lift. She wasn’t expecting this. 

“It’s about the runes.” 

Just then, Julie’s cell rings. She pulls it out and reads the screen. “It’s Dana.”

She answers it without asking or excusing herself and for some reason, that makes him like her even more. 

“Hey. Do not tell me it’s another murder.” She says in a low voice, glancing around and Mark leans in unconsciously, listening intently. 

“Carmel? As in Northern California Carmel?” 

A pause as Dana talks. “Huh. That long ago? Interesting...” She contemplates, chewing on the straw in her drink. 

Dana is talking while Julie nods into the phone. “Yeah that’s no problem. I can hold down the fort. Who are you taking with you?” 

Julie’s eyes widen and she grimaces. “Really? Is that a good idea?” then “Okay... Well, don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.” A beat, then she looks off. “Hilarious,” she mutters with immense sarcasm. “What? Yeah, he’s right here; I’ll tell him. Fill me in tomorrow after you meet with the detectives. Should be interesting.” 

She ends the call and repockets her phone. Mark is particularly curious about the “don’t do anything I wouldn’t do” part of that conversation. Who could be accompanying Dana that would elicit that kind of reaction?

“What’s going on?” He asks.

Julie lowers her voice again. “Dana got a call about a potentially related murder that happened two years ago in Carmel.” She sits back. “She said to tell you she’ll take care of booking a flight out for tomorrow morning, but she asked if you could reserve the hotel when you get in.” 

Mark spots his chance. “How many rooms does she need?” 

“Just two. One for her and one for Agent Mulder.” 

Mark knew something was off between them; they seemed simultaneously awkward and weirdly intimate with each other. Then a cold panic hits him. This better not be serious — not when Chris is doing what he’s doing in New York this week. He needs to find a way to mention it before the night is up.

“Go back to what you were saying about the runes,” Julie says as their food arrives, which distracts her. “This looks so good. I haven’t eaten all day.” 

“I’m surprised she’s not taking you,” Mark says, trying to shepherd the conversation back as Julie pushes two of the four plates toward him. She begins serving herself noodles.

“She wants me to stay here and manage the rest of the operation. Makes sense,” she shrugs. “Plus they worked together for years when she was at headquarters, so they have experience.” 

“They did?” 

“They were partners.” 

Mark masks his surprise by directing his attention toward spooning vegetables onto his plate. “It’s the Pebble Beach Pro-Am this weekend. Ben and Alex go every year. You met them; they were at my place for the Super Bowl,” he says, then flushes; he did _not_ mean to get that close to the topic. Julie reaches for her drink and finishes the rest of it in one gulp. 

He rushes to his point, flustered. “Anyway it’s not going to be easy finding a hotel in that area for tomorrow night. I think there’s federal lodging at the naval base in Monterey but I hear it’s not very nice, and even if they aren’t already booked, I think it’s shared cabins, the kind where—” he’s rambling, unable to stop, but luckily she cuts him off. 

“Do _not_ do that.” 

He startles. “Do what?” 

“Put them up in anything shared.” 

_Alright, this is on her now._ “Why not?” he asks pointedly. 

Julie sighs and puts her chopsticks down. Mark is perhaps the most discreet person she knows, but she doesn’t want to betray Dana’s confidence. She looks at him. “Don’t make me say it.” 

Mark is now certain it’s more serious than he hoped. They make an unspoken agreement with their eyes to end the topic there, but Mark is compelled to tell her what he knows. 

“On an unrelated note,” he begins slowly, “Chris is heading to New York tomorrow morning. He told me he’s going to see a designer up there about a ring.” 

Julie blanches, then starts shaking her head furiously. “No. That’s insane. They _just_ moved in together. And she wasn’t even so keen on doing _that_.” 

“I know,” Mark agrees. “But he said that after she got shot in the raid on that last case, he—” Mark winces. “He said he doesn’t want her to work anymore.” He’s staring at the bubbles in his beer glass, praying Julie won’t think he’s of the same brand of misogynist.

“I tried to talk him out of it,” he says quietly. “He… seemed pretty resolute. But you _cannot_ tell Dana. I just— Well, I thought I should mention it in case there’s… some reason that information might be useful to you,” he finishes lamely. 

Julie nods soberly. “I won’t say anything unless I have to.” 

She moves to pick up her chopsticks and then sets them back down. “Wait a minute. You were going to tell me something about the runes.” 

“Oh, right. Shit.” Mark had momentarily forgotten. He reaches into his bag and pulls the file back out.

“I heard from John that there wasn’t much movement on identifying the symbols, so last night I thought I’d take a look. I don’t know if I ever told you but one of my majors was Anthropology. Obviously it was just a bachelor’s program so I’m by no means an expert, but I took this class in Ancient and Post-Classical language. After Agent Mulder pointed out the similarities between Germanic Runes and the carvings, I recognized them. Anyway, I used my alumni library account to access an electronic text we used in class as a reference.” 

He’s leafing through papers and hands Julie a spreadsheet. In it, Mark has placed images of the isolated carvings next to sets of runic symbols. “I put all the potentially similar ones there, but you can see that there aren’t perfect matches. I compared them to Elder and Younger Futhark, and of course the later Anglo-Saxon runes,” he indicates the column headings.

“Of course,” Julie says mockingly, unable to hide her absolute delight at his nerdiness. He doesn’t notice.

“But then I got to thinking. See, I studied Anthropology for a reason; I mean there were like five other undergrads in my year out of a class of 1700.” 

He stops abruptly and considers not saying what he was going to say next. “Ok look, I was super into Indiana Jones when I was a kid and so I wanted to be an archeologist,” he mutters hurriedly. “Do not say a word,” he says, kicking her under the table as she stifles a laugh. “Come on, I was like ten years old.” 

“Yeah but you weren’t ten when you declared your major, Mark, you were—” 

“ _The point is_ ,” he interrupts sterly, “my grandparents gave me this really old childrens’ book one Christmas — some English picture book about a farm kid who digs up a sword with runes on it in some field. Obviously it’s fiction; he finds out the sword belonged to some ancient warrior who used it to kill his parents as revenge for banishing him from their castle. I know, it was a fucked up story to tell a kid. Whatever, the book was old. Anyway, at the back, the book had this elaborately illustrated chart of what it called ‘Anglo-Saxon’ runes. It had gold leaf and everything. I thought it was the coolest thing in the world. Needless to say, I don’t remember many specifics, but I do remember that the story went that the runes on the sword were symbols for Courage, Honor, and Respect.

“Now in the real world, these runes have been interpreted both through transliteration and as stand-alone symbols. Clearly transliteration would have been less palatable for a childrens’ book, so the runes were listed with their name meaning: things like God, Wealth, Death — or in the case of the sword, Courage, Honor and Respect.

“Fash forward to college: I remember doing the reading for this class one night and realizing that those three runes I remembered from the picture book — the ones on the sword — looked different from what they looked like in reality. In the book, they all had these curly lines, whereas runes from any one of these alphabets only incorporate straight lines. Artistic liberty by the book illustrator, I guess. But look,” he says, pointing to one of the photos of the nightstand carvings. “These have curly lines.”

Julie is on the literal edge of her seat. 

“Like I said, I don’t remember any of the runes as illustrated in the back of the book, but I _do_ remember the ones on the sword. And this one,” he points to the carving from the fourth crime scene “was definitely what the rune for Courage looked like in that book.”

Mark closes the file. “So, I can’t find a copy of the book in any library or digital resource, but I called my mom and thank God, we still have it. Turns out it’s some super rare, hand-illustrated book my grandfather got at an auction in London, which he of course neglected to tell us at the time. My parents put it in their off-site wine storage facility; you can regulate temperature and humidity and all that in these small, separate compartments. Anyway, my mom is going to send me pictures of all the pages as soon as she can. And when I get them, I have a feeling the other carved runes will match what’s in that book.” 

Mark takes a swig of his beer, his mouth made dry by his presentation. 

Julie stares at him in stunned silence, her jaw slack. _Who is this guy?_ She wonders to herself. He resumes eating, feeling awkward under her soundless scrutinization.

Finally she finds her voice. “We absolutely need to go to Dana and Mulder with this.” 

“No! No, not yet. I’m only telling you because I want to know if I’m way off base here — Like, maybe I should just sit in the corner and let the adults work. I do _not_ want anyone to know about this until I see those pictures of the book.” 

“But—”

“ _Please_ , Julie,” he implores, grabbing her hand. “I don’t want to look like an idiot. I’m already overstepping. I’ll get the photos from my mom tomorrow and if it’s what I think it is, we can go from there.”

She looks down at their hands clasped over the table and he begins to retract his, embarrassed. She catches it and squeezes, smiling enigmatically at him. 

“Ok,” she concedes, holding his eyes for a moment. Then she shrugs and picks up her chopsticks. “It’s just impressive, is all.” 

At her unexpected compliment, he instantly swells with pride. Julie pops a potsticker in her mouth. “At least let me buy you an ice cream cone after this.”

  
  



	14. Chapter 14

Mulder is sitting at the hotel bar with a beer and fries, a truly pathetic dinner. He looks around. Even in a lame, three-star business hotel like this, the LA folks milling around all seem young, confident, and beautiful. It makes him feel even more alone than he already does.

He’s debating heading to the gym and checks his watch. It’s after 10pm. _Should be empty_ , he tells himself. He’s trying not to acknowledge he’s too groggy with sleep-deprivation to get up off his stool, much less work out.

He gestures idly to the bartender for the check as someone takes the stool immediately left of his. He’s initially annoyed by the proximity, since nearly all the stools are vacant. He glances over to find a woman looking back and him, smiling. An attractive woman. 

“Hey,” she says simply. “I’m Lisa.”

“Mulder.” He smiles back tentatively and she checks his hand for a ring. He pulls it under the bar, out of sight. 

“Are you here on business?” she asks as the bartender delivers her a gin and tonic. 

He nods. “You?” 

“Yep.” She pauses. “I noticed you in the lobby yesterday. How long are you in town?”

“Uh…” He’s searching for the bartender and his check. “Indeterminate.”

She’s clearly not used to doing the work to interest men. He looks back at her as she studies his face. She really _is_ attractive: tall, with a glowing tan complexion, gold-flecked irises and tumbling chocolate hair. She runs her tongue over her lipglossed lips. He looks down; he doesn’t remember it happening but her hand is on his thigh. 

Alarm bells go off in his head. He’s fumbling uselessly for a way to get out of this with some grace, but with no check in sight, he can’t come up with even half an exit plan. His mind is blank. Momentarily Eddie Van Blundht comes to mind; he really is a loser by choice.

He’s still trying to come up with a polite excuse when he feels another person take the stool directly to his right. _I guess the party at the Marriott starts at 10_ , he thinks. 

“Can I get a pinot noir?”

Mulder whips his head around to find Scully, who is reaching over his right arm to grab a fry from his plate. “Oh my God,” he says, stunned, a boyish grin breaking over his face. She’s changed out of her work clothes into a casual, sky blue slip dress and oversized cardigan. His eyes sweep over her body where the dress clings to her subtle curves. “What are you doing here?” 

The bartender slides his check in front of him and Mulder flicks his eyes briefly to his in acknowledgement, then sees in his periphery that the stranger to his left is no longer there. He looks around wondering how she disappeared so quickly before it dawns on him how Scully might interpret it. 

“I didn’t mean to interrupt,” Scully apologizes, tipping her head toward the empty stool. He narrows his eyes at her and she smirks, but he thinks he makes out a flash of jealousy. 

“What’s up?” he asks as he extracts his wallet from his back pocket. 

“I called your room and didn’t get an answer. And your cell is off,” she says with feigned insouciance. “I should have considered you might not want to be bothered.” Now he’s certain there’s a bite to her words.

He pulls his phone from his front pocket and looks at it. “The battery died,” he explains, holding it up. “What’s going on? It must be important if you came all the way here.” 

The bartender delivers Scully’s wine glass. Mulder hands the bartender his credit card. “You can add that to my tab,” he says. She takes a long drink from her glass.

“I got a call from a detective in Carmel. It’s pretty far up north — just south of Monterey. Detetives up there have an unsolved murder from two years ago: a woman in her sixties, strangulation, with a runic carving found on her nightstand.” 

“She wasn't shot. And just one woman?” Mulder asks. “No partner?” 

“No. She lived alone. Never married.” Mulder’s forehead creases in confusion, his brain fogged over with exhaustion. 

“I’m here because I booked a flight that leaves out of LAX at 6 in the morning. There’s only one flight in and out of Monterey, so it has to be that early.” She averts her eyes, watching the red wine move as she swirls the stem. “Since that’s in eight hours, I uh, need to know — I mean, if you don’t want to go with me, I should let Julie know sooner rather than later.” 

“I’ll go,” he pounces. “Of course I’ll go.”

She downs the rest of her wine. “Well. You better get packing,” she says, pushing herself from the bar. “I’ll pick you up at 5. And charge your phone,” she orders.

She moves to stand and an unexpected surge of anxiety prompts Mulder to hastily cover her hand with his. She stops. He’s staring at their hands, rubs his thumb over her knuckles. 

“Scully… You know I wouldn’t— with a stranger — or, or anyone — not while I still—” His brows knit together in consternation as he struggles to find the words to say what he needs to, without having to say too much.

“I know,” she interrupts, putting him out of his misery. Her smile is forced, and he senses something in it: embarrassment? Sadness? 

He should be indignant. She has no right to be jealous. But instead, all he wants is to allay her suspicion.

The bartender returns with his receipt and he rushes to sign it, wanting to be sure she bears witness to him leaving the bar and heading back to his room alone for the night. She stands and waits for him, and they walk the few steps toward the lobby together, his hand finding its way to the small of her back. 

“See you tomorrow,” she says at the automatic glass doors, a gust of cool night air hitting him as she disappears back into the night.

  
  



	15. Chapter 15

Mulder is brushing his teeth when he sees the text from her: _Chris has a flight to JFK a few minutes after ours, so we’ll be picking you up together._

Mulder’s heart begins to race. Another text pops up: _We’ll stop in the porte-cochere. His driver drives a black Escalade._

He sees the moving ellipsis indicating she’s typing, then it disappears for a moment. Eventually: _I tried. I couldn’t get out of it._

Mulder hangs his head back and groans, then returns to the bathroom, praying morning rush hour hasn’t yet started. 

* * *

Mulder is waiting outside the hotel when the Escalade pulls up. A large man in a chauffeur uniform jumps out and takes his overnight bag. “Oh,” Mulder says, surprised. “You don’t need to—”

“It’s no problem sir,” the man replies with a friendly smile. 

As the driver deposits his bag in the back, Mulder opens the car door. Scully is seated in the front row of the back, but he notices Chris is in the front passenger seat. Mulder climbs in next to Scully.

Chris turns around and smiles warmly, offering Mulder his hand. 

“Morning. I’m Chris. It’s nice to finally meet you, Agent Mulder. Dana’s said such nice things about you,” he lies. In truth, she hadn’t even mentioned him until last night. 

Mulder shakes his hand, not quite meeting his eyes. “Thanks for the ride,” he manages. 

Chris hands him a venti Starbucks cup. “We stopped on the way here.” 

The driver re-enters the car and they head off toward the airport. 

Chris makes eye contact with Mulder through the rearview mirror. “So Dana tells me you're a behavioral analyst. That’s a fascinating line of work.”

Mulder nods wordlessly. 

“You’re based in Washington? Did you ever work with Dana she was there?” Chris asks them both.

Mulder glances at Scully but she doesn't acknowledge the question. “Um... A little.” He redirects. “What is it you do, Chris?” 

“I’m a venture capitalist. We have an office in New York so I have to fly out there pretty often,” he explains. 

“Do you uh, focus on any particular industries?” 

“Some tech, but mostly renewable energy.” Chris turns around to face Mulder. “Don't worry; I swear I’m not a hippie. My great grandfather made the family’s dirty money in oil so I felt it was only fair to try and tip the scales a bit.” Chris shrugs casually. "My parents hate it."

“So Charlie,” Chris says, turning to the driver and lowering his voice to a more intimate level. “I was about to ask about your daughter. Someone told me she’s the star of her gymnastics team these days.” 

Charlie chuckles good-naturedly. “Oh I’m not sure about that. But let me tell you, the more they win, the more time and money we have to spend. They travel all over the West Coast for those meets.” 

“I can imagine. When I played baseball in college I used to feel so guilty about how much money the school spent shepherding our team around the country. I thought, this is a university, right? Shouldn’t this money be spent on education?” Chris shakes his head. “Plus, we were absolutely terrible. Like, the _worst_.”

Mulder is eavesdropping on the conversation but staring out the window, wishing he were literally anywhere outside of this goddamn car. 

“I’m actually taking two weeks off starting tomorrow. I’m gonna drive her and the missus to a couple of gymnastics meets up in the Bay Area. We leave Sunday.” 

“Ugh,” says Chris in solidarity. “More driving, even on vacation?” 

Charlie shakes his head. “Always, man.” 

“You should take this car. It will be nice to have the room,” Chris offers. “I don’t mind.” 

“Nah, the gas alone would murder me. Darlene bought herself a Prius last year. Didn’t I tell you? With my Christmas bonus?”

Chris nods. 

“We’re gonna take that. Much better mileage. But thanks for the offer though,” Charlie says as he elbows Chris. “You know I always say it’s too good of you to let me keep it off hours. Darlene complains that our church probably wonders why I’m driving an Escalade up to service, then short-changing them on the collection plate.” 

Chris lets out a huff of laughter, and a comfortable silence descends between them.

“I’ll bet your daughter’s clamoring to see that touring Cirque show,” Chris says as they pass a billboard advertisement for the production.

“Oooh yes,” Charlie nods dramatically. “But those ticket prices are crazy.” 

“I _know_.” Chris somehow manages to say this without sounding patronizing. “It’s disgusting how much they can charge you to take your kids to see some art. It should be subsidized, like in England.”

“Oh yeah? That how it work there?” Charlie asks. 

“Yeah, the government steps in on a lot of theater there to keep ticket prices affordable. They actually believe art should be available to everyone. Novel concept.”

Mulder finds it extremely unusual how casually close Chris seems to his driver. They talk like old buddies.

“Wait. Charlie!” Chris exclaims. “A client gave Dana and me tickets to that show for _this Saturday_ but now I’m out of town.” Chris turns to look at Scully. “You probably won’t be back by then, right hon?” 

“Uh, no, probably not,” Scully lies. 

Chris takes out his phone. “I’m texting Janet now to put the tickets under your name.” 

“What? No, no,” Charlie says. 

“They’ll just go to waste, Charlie,” Chris says firmly as he types on his phone. “Besides you just said you’re off work starting tomorrow and not leaving town until Sunday. It’s perfect.” 

Mulder wants to believe the whole thing is an embarrassing act of charity but even he can’t quite convince himself. Chris and Charlie are so at ease with each other, and Chris makes the offer so matter-of-factly that it’s actually quite touching. Mulder feels a sad weight in his gut; this guy is so likeable. 

“That’s too kind of you, Chris. Too kind.” 

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Chris says, waving it off. “It’s the 2pm show. Janet is forwarding you the confirmation. You can pick up the tickets from her.” 

“Ok, ok,” Charlie concedes, chuckling. “That’s awesome. She’s gonna flip.”

The car slows to a stop as they approach a wall of traffic. Mulder wonders how far the airport is, and if it would be weird if he just jumped out here and walked the rest of the way.

“So Dana,” Charlie calls over his shoulder, and Scully glances up. “How do you like living with my man here? I haven’t seen you since you moved in. Is he treating you right?”

“Hey now,” Chris interrupts with a short laugh tinged with unease. “Don’t put her on the spot.” 

Scully forces a smile. “It’s good. It’s a gorgeous house. Amazing view.” 

Charlie nods and Chris turns more fully in his seat to study Scully, smirking at her playfully. “He wasn’t asking about the house, Dana. Charlie knows what the house looks like.” Scully flushes, but Chris turns back to face Charlie before he sees it.

Mulder extracts his phone from his pocket and pretends to scroll through it. If anyone remembered he was there and bothered to look closely enough, they’d see his hands shaking. Luckily, at the moment he seems invisible.

“I’m just grateful she’s willing to try it at all,” Chris goes on. “I couldn’t believe she finally said yes.” He makes eye contact with her through her reflection in the mirror, his own eyes smiling. “And you _did_ give me fair warning. She actually described a relationship as a ‘battle.’ On our _first date_.” Chris shakes his head amusedly. 

“What did _that_ mean?” Charlie asks them both, mock-scandalized. 

“Dana here said that after the way her last relationship crashed and burned, I should be prepared for an uphill battle. But Jesus, Charlie, you remember my ex. The one who ended up cheating on me with the _78-year old billionaire_?” Charlie lets out a loud bark of laughter and Chris exhales loudly. “I was my own kind of mess back then.” 

“So then how’s he doing?” Charlie asks Scully as his laugh dies down. “Must be doing alright if you agreed to take the next step.”

Chris looks at her reflection again and can tell she’s not interested in having this conversation. “Well last week she called me an open book, which at first I thought was an insult before she told me that’s exactly what she needed. So I guess that’s a good sign.” He turns and reaches out to squeeze her hand, and she smiles weakly. “I think we’re doing good,” he says gently, as if just to her.

As they approach signs for LAX, Charlie clears his throat. “Who gets dropped off first?”

“You can drop me first; it’s easier. No need to drive on to the tarmac this time, just drop me off and I can walk. 

“Really?” Charlie asks. 

“Yeah, their flight leaves at 6 and our jet won’t be ready for half an hour.”

When they pull up to the private terminal, Chris opens his door and jumps out. “I can get my bag. Thanks so much again for letting us change plans last minute. I know it’s out of your way,” Chris says, leaning in to slip Charlie what looks like a hundred dollar bill. 

Mulder’s eyes widen and he hastily looks away. _What the literal fuck_.

“This is too much,” Charlie whispers. “It was no problem, really. And the tickets—”

“It’s what Dana would have paid to hire a car anyway.” He’s adjusting his laptop bag on his shoulder, “Plus when you see the prices of those commemorative Cirque programs, you won’t be thanking me unless that’s in your pocket.” Chris says, indicating the cash. “And don’t get me started on the concessions.” 

He closes the door before Charlie can protest further, then opens the back door and kisses Scully quickly on the lips. Mulder turns his head from them as if slapped.

“It was nice meeting you,” Chris says to Mulder, who nods without looking.

“Love you. Have a safe trip,” Chris murmurs to Scully, smoothing her hair. 

Blessedly, he’s shutting the door and moving to grab his bag from the back before Scully can say anything in return. Mulder’s half certain he’ll start sobbing right then and there if he has to hear her say those words to him.

Chris waves to them from the curb as they pull away and head for their regular-person terminal. 

“You’ve got yourself a good man, there,” Charlie says to Scully, grinning at her through the rear-view mirror. 

Scully nods, smiling tightly. “I know it,” she agrees quietly, and Mulder digs his nails into his palm.

  
  



	16. Chapter 16

Mulder says fewer than five words as they make their way to the gate. Scully feels nauseous with embarrassment. She knows Chris didn’t mean to put on a show, but he certainly did anyway. She can’t gauge what Mulder is thinking. Maybe he thinks Chris is an over-privileged, patronizing prick.

But in reality, Mulder is simply miserable, racked with guilt over having kissed Scully behind this man’s back — over fantasizing that he can convince Scully to leave him. It was so much easier living in a world where Scully’s boyfriend was a vaguely assumed concept. Now, Chris is a real human being whom Mulder knows — whether or not he likes it — could actually be good for Scully. He’s never been able to say the same for himself.

Yep. He really is a selfish son-of-a-bitch.

Scully comes back from the bathroom just as they’re called to board. She has a newspaper and a bag of sunflower seeds. A pitiful offering, but it’s something, she thinks. Still, he’s silent the entire hour-long flight, avoiding her eyes, toying absentmindedly with the corner of the unopened bag while staring out the window. 

* * *

At the rental car agency, Mulder gets the car while Scully hangs back with their bags like she usually does — or more accurately, like she usually did. She watches as Mulder leans against the desk, pulling seeds out of his jacket pocket one at a time, waiting for the agent to return with their keys. His shoulders are slumped and his head low. He looks as dejected as he did when he first arrived. _That was just two days ago_ , she reminds herself. It felt like a year had passed. 

As they wind their way out of the airport, Mulder finally speaks. “You know, I spent a month out here one summer when I was in high school,” he says. “A friend’s family had a beach house in Carmel-by-the-Sea. Have you ever been?”

She shakes her head, looking around. “It’s nice.” 

“Wait till you see the ocean.” He checks his watch. “It’s not even 8 yet. We don’t have to be at the station till 9, right?” He veers off the freeway without waiting for an answer. 

They approach a guard shack and Mulder extracts his wallet. 

“Where are we going?” Scully asks, a little weary. 

“I want to show you something.” 

Mulder pays the guard in cash and gets a map in return. He stuffs the map into the cupholder without looking at it and continues into what looks like a residential area. Scully watches with curiosity as modest houses pass her window. They take a turn and are suddenly beneath a thick canopy of Monterey Cypress trees.

“Wow,” she says, looking up, admiring how the windblown, knotty branches curve overhead, creating a shadowy tunnel. “We must be near the water.” 

They take another turn and the car faces a panoramic view of the churning ocean, rough waves hitting scattered rock outcroppings covered in seabirds. Outrageously sprawling mansions are set behind a golf course that runs along the road. She looks at Mulder. “Is this Pebble Beach?” 

“Yep. We’re on 17-Mile Drive,” he affirms. They pull over at the first lookout. Scully can’t wait for the smell of sea spray and jumps out almost before the car stops. Seagulls call overhead and pelicans dive into the water. The sky is tinged pink, the late winter sun having just broken. The wind is so strong that a gust almost knocks her over. It stings; it’s 20 degrees cooler up here than it was LA. She pulls her trench coat tight around her waist, tries in vain to keep her hair out of her eyes. 

Mulder comes up behind her. “This is so beautiful,” she murmurs. “So different from the beaches in Southern California.” 

“Better or worse?” he asks as a seal jumps from a rock and splashes into the sea.

“I don’t know. It feels more raw and untamed. More real. It’s hard to believe it’s the same coast.” She pauses, considering. “Better, I think.” Unlike the manufactured white sands of Santa Monica, it’s this kind of challenging seascape that makes her think of her father. She smiles to herself.

Mulder is watching her openly, savoring the rare look of content on her face. After a beat, he grabs her hand and pulls her back toward the car. “Come on; we’ve got 15 more miles of this view.” 

They drive in silence, her staring wistfully out the window, him sneaking glances at her when he can. They duck in and out from under oddly shaped trees sculpted by the strong winds off the ocean. After a while, he pulls over again. 

When she steps out and looks over the rock wall, she gasps. Out at the edge of the beach, a sharp point of rock rises from the water, waves crashing relentlessly at its base. A single cypress tree springs from it valiantly, leaning over the ocean like a sentinel. She thinks vaguely of Jimmy Stewart and passionate kisses, but can’t put her finger on why. She shivers as a gust whips up from the cliff.

She looks down at the plaque on the wall. _The Lone Cypress_ , it reads. 

Mulder is behind her now placing his coat over her shoulders. She hugs it to herself gratefully, her nose and the tips of her ears already going numb. 

“It hasn’t changed. This is one of those scenes that fixes in your mind like a photograph,” he says thoughtfully.

“Everything does that for you, Mulder. You have eidetic memory.” 

He chuckles. “They say this is one of the most photographed spots in America. You probably saw it in Hitchcock’s _Vertigo_.” He pauses. “But I don’t know; it struck me as so… sad. Even as a kid. This one tree, living out there for 250 years or whatever, all alone because nothing else can grab purchase enough to survive where it stands. All the while those waves beating at its foundation, eroding it away...” He looks at her. “Is that depressing or what?” He gives her a lopsided smile. 

She can’t help but fit Mulder into the metaphor.

Scully looks back at the plaque. “It says here the tree is scarred by fires… And that those cables at the trunk were added 60 years ago for support, to prevent it from toppling.” She runs her finger over the words “scarred” and “support.” She imagines those cables severed when no one’s around to see it happen, the tree breaking under the weight of the wind and plummeting to the sea. A profound sense of guilt floods her. 

Mulder checks his watch. “We’d better get going.” The gravel crunches under his shoes as he walks back to the car, but she lingers a moment longer, irrationally pained by the prospect of leaving the Lone Cypress all alone.

  
  



	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just want to say a huge thank you to everyone who’s taking the time to read this story — especially those who have left comments and kudos. I started this story thinking it would be a fun exercise for me, since I’ve never written anything creative before; I never planned on sharing it for a pretty simple reason: I have (less than) no self-confidence! But, if even a few people get some enjoyment from reading this, it will have been worth overcoming my crippling self-doubt. -_- 
> 
> I’ll also take a second here for a status report: I’ve written all but the final chapter, and it's looking like 41 chapters, total. My plan is to edit and release chapters daily. 
> 
> And yes, it heats up a few more times. *wink*

Scully and Mulder walk up the front steps of the City of Carmel Police Station, where Detectives Sanchez and Wilson await them in the lobby. 

“Thanks for coming all the way up here,” says Sanchez, a latino man in his mid-40s. “This is my partner, David Wilson.” The younger, blonde man to his right steps forward to shake their hands after Sanchez. “Come with us to the back; we have everything laid out for you.” 

Mulder and Scully follow the two men into a conference room, where a file box sits on the table aside an array of crime scene photos and a single plastic bag marked ‘Evidence.’ 

They spread out around the table and Mulder picks up the photo of the nightstand carving to take a closer look.

Sanchez speaks first. “They don’t get a lot of murders in this town. In fact the last one was 40 years ago, and that was an open-and-shut domestic case. Carmel doesn't even have detectives; we were working from our station in Monterey. I don’t know what you know about the place, but it’s pretty much just a vacation town for the rich — Clint Eastwood, Brad Pitt, tech CEOs from Silicon Valley 90 minutes north. Population of only 3600. It’s not the kind of place you’d associate with serial killers.” 

“So tourism is the main industry?” Mulder asks. “But given the price of a house in this town, I assume most of the people actually working in Carmel are coming in from outside.” 

Sanchez nods. “You sure can’t afford to live here on a waiter’s salary, if that’s what you’re asking. This is by far the most affluent city in Monterey County. The median household income is eight times what it is in Salinas — that’s the largest city in the county.” 

Mulder nods. “That’s an agriculture city, right? ‘The Salad Bowl of the World.’” 

“Wow. I’m surprised you know that.” 

Mulder indicates the crime scene photos. “So tell us what happened here.” 

“The murder happened a little over two years ago, in late January. The victim was identified as Mary Walker, 66. She had an auto-refill on her prescriptions at the Carmel Safeway and the last one was never picked up. She didn’t return the pharmacy’s messages, so they called the police for a wellness check.” 

“What was the medication?” Scully asks. 

“I can’t remember their exact names but it’s in her autopsy report,” Sanchez indicates the file already in Scully’s hand. 

“Abilify, Zypreza...” Scully mutters, reading aloud, then looks up at Mulder. “Antipsychotics.”

Wilson chimes in. “She was diagnosed with manic depression when she was 30. I think that’s called bipolar disorder now?”

Scully nods as she scans the file. “That’s the current nosology. It says she spent almost 30 years at a residential treatment center in Marin. At Bridges.” Scully raises an eyebrow. “That’s a pricey facility.” 

“Well whatever they did there didn’t work,” Wilson cringes. “We found a stash of unused pills going back years. It was like she stopped taking medication the day she was released. I don’t know why she kept picking it up. I guess she was afraid her doctors would be notified.”

There’s a pause in the conversation as they process this information.

“So the cause of death was strangulation. And you said she lived alone?” Mulder asks Sanchez.  
  
“Neighbors never saw anyone near that house except for her. Said she was friendly, though, and quiet; no one even guessed at her disorder. Anyway, we couldn’t track down anyone who really knew her. No friends and no family.” 

“And she never had any children?” Mulder asks.

Sanchez looks up, thinking. “For some reason, we thought she may have given birth at some point… Probably something in the autopsy?”

Scully looks closely at the photos in her hand and notes a cesarean scar highlighted by the forensic pathologist. 

“We looked into it. She definitely didn’t _raise_ any children. At least not that we could find.” 

Wilson nods. “That was pretty easy to confirm since she’d only been living outside of Bridges for the last five years of her life. And we came up empty when searching birth records.”

Mulder picks up an evidence bag containing an old photograph. “Why did you guys hang on to this?”

“It was left out on her coffee table.” 

Mulder notes the style of dress, estimating the photo was taken around 30 or 40 years ago. The woman wears bright red lipstick and a broad smile, her long brown hair caught in the wind. The man standing next to her is maybe 30 years her senior, in an old-fashioned three piece suit. 

“Is this her and her father?” Mulder asks. 

“That’s her and her former employer,” Wilson clairfies. “She worked as a housekeeper for the man there — a prominent financier out of San Francisco who maintained a large weekend estate on 17-Mile Drive. James Stafford. He actually retired to the area — even served a stint as mayor. He passed away about five years ago.”

Mulder looks up. “Before Mary moved back to town?”

“Yeah. Died a couple months before. We looked into it cause of the photo — but even if he wasn’t dead, he was way too decrepit to strangle anyone. He was 97 when he died.” 

“At first we thought it was weird that a housekeeper would keep a photo with her employer,” Sanchez adds. “But to be clear, Stafford’s daughter told us the Pebble Beach home had a staff of fifteen at the time — so by ‘housekeeper,’ we don’t mean to say she was a maid. She managed the staff and all the household affairs. It sounds like she was a pretty significant part of their family life.” 

On second look, Mulder sees a more specific story developing: Mary is looking at the camera, caught mid-laugh, and Stafford is leaning in close with his eyes on her, his hand against her lower back. “How long was she working for him?”

“Eleven years. Stafford’s daughter said Mary developed bipolar when she turned 30. After that, she left her job and was admitted to Bridges.”

Mulder hands the photo to Scully and taps the part of the picture with James’s hand. She looks up at him and nods, acknowledging she sees it too. 

Scully returns to studying Mary’s medical record, thinking that 30 is rather late for the onset of bipolar disorder. “She was sure Mary was 30 when she left?”

“Yeah,” affirms Sanchez. “We confirmed it with the hospital, too. The daughter — her name’s Portia, by the way — says she was real close to Mary growing up — said she was like a sister. She remembers it happening very clearly; she even teared up a bit talking about it. Said it came out of nowhere. One day she came down for the weekend thinking everything was fine and found Mary gone.” 

Mulder has moved back to pictures of the crime scene. “So after Mary left the treatment facility, she came straight back to Carmel?” 

“Yep. She’d been in that cottage on Scenic Road for five years. The address is in the file if you want to check it out.”

“But you might not be able to get inside,” Sanchez interrupts Wilson. “It’s a safehouse now; she left it to a local domestic violence non-profit. I’ll get you the organization contact in case you want to try.”

“Is it fine for us to take all this?” Mulder asks, glancing up at the two detectives from the stack of photos he’s flipping through.

“Yeah, all yours. We just need you to sign off so we can document the chain of custody.” 

Scully begins to pack everything back into the file box. 

Wilson steps forward. “So does this mean you think it’s him? You think it’s the same guy?” 

“We can’t say for certain...” Scully says evenly.

“But there’s a pretty good chance,” Mulder mumbles, still studying the carving.

* * *

Mulder is signing the evidence box out when Scully gets a call from Mark. She takes a few steps away. “Hi. What’s going on?” 

“About your accommodations: turns out there’s a golf tournament at Pebble Beach that starts tomorrow, and because of that, all the hotels in the area are booked up.” 

Scully pinches the bridge of her nose, terrified that he’s about to tell her that she and Mulder need to share a room. 

“I haven’t given up. I’m still working on it. I’ll let you know as soon as I have something for you.” 

“I just thought of something,” Scully says suddenly. “Chris’s best friend has a beach house somewhere near here. I should see if he’ll let us use it. You keep working on it but I’ll text you if it works out. Oh, and could you have Julie call me first thing? We have something we need from her.” 

“Will do.”

Mulder comes up next to her holding the file box. “Everything okay?”

“We don’t have a place to stay tonight. I might be able to solve that though. Give me a minute to call Chris.” Mulder’s brows lift in curiosity as Scully dials.

“Hey, it’s me.” Mulder turns away, foolishly pained to hear her say those words to someone else. “I need a favor. There’s a golf tournament in Pebble Beach and we can’t find lodging. Your friend Jeff — didn’t he say he has a house here he never uses?”

Mulder can hear Chris on the other end. “He does. Let me text him. He used my parents’ Hamptons house over Thanksgiving so he owes me. Plus he hates golf with a passion, so I know he won’t be in town to watch a tournament. I’ll text you when I hear.” 

Scully hangs up and sighs loudly. Mulder is about to ask if there’s anything he can do when Scully’s phone goes off again.

“Dana,” Scully answers after a half-ring. A second later she mouths ‘Julie’ to Mulder. 

“Thanks for calling so quickly. We have something we’d like you to do for us today if you have the time.” She heads back toward the conference room they just left and gestures for Mulder to follow her. Scully loosely fills in Julie on what they’ve learned about the Carmel murder as they walk. Once they’re behind closed doors, she puts Julie on speaker, laying the phone on the table.

“I have you on speaker. Mulder is here. At the moment this is a long shot, but here’s the backstory: Mulder found out that Chloe gave birth two months ago. He was told she went through a private agency: pregnant women who don’t want to keep their baby pay to give birth off the record, and then couples looking for a baby pay to adopt it, also off record.”

“What?” Julie blurts. “That can’t be real. That is fucked up. Can— can you imagine the potential consequences of something like that? That’s essentially human trafficking.” 

“We know,” Mulder says, crossing closer to the table. “We don’t know how accurate any of this is. And we _really_ don’t know if it has anything to do with the murders, but we _do_ know that at least three of the victims’ bodies indicate prior pregnancy, despite the fact that no birth records seem to exist. Chloe’s phone had a contact for this agency and we’d like you to call, pretend you’re interested in their services. We want to know where their clients are, how it works, how they keep things like this confidential — anything we can use to either rule in or rule out a connection. Oh and it’s a service for the rich, in case that’s not obvious. So try to… sound rich.”

“Um, okay… Sure. I got it.”

Mulder glaces up at Scully, a questioning look on his face. Scully nods, affirming she’s confident Julie can pull it off. 

“Also,” Scully adds, “if John and his team are still coming up empty-handed with the runes, have them move over to making calls to the victims’ relations and friends for now. See if we can find out if any of the other women used this service, or at least if they were pregnant at some point. They probably won’t have been so forthcoming with anyone about the former.” 

“I’ll have them start on it now.”

“Thanks. Stay in touch,” Scully says before ending the call. “What next?” she asks Mulder as she repockets her phone. 

“I want to talk to James Stafford’s daughter. She’s the closest thing we have to a relation. Wilson just told me the family attends the golf tournament annually, so luckily for us, she should be in town.”

  
  



	18. Chapter 18

Mulder and Scully pull up to an intricately carved wooden gate marking the driveway of the Stafford Estate. After a moment, a voice comes over the gate intercom. “Welcome to Windy Cove. May I ask your name?”

“Special Agents Mulder and Scully with the FBI,” he says, holding his badge up to the security camera. “We called earlier. We’re here to speak with Portia Walsh.” 

“Perfect. We’ll buzz you in now.” 

The imposing gate swings open to reveal a long stone driveway flanked by wind-sculpted Monterey cypress trees. The grounds are lush green, thick grass scattered with what Scully assumes are actually intentionally landscaped wildflower patches. It reminds her of the meadows she saw as a child in Southern France. 

As they approach the end of the drive, the blue of the ocean peeks through the trees and Scully gasps. A sprawling 10,000 square foot French Normandy-style home is perched on the cliff. White, yellow, and green moss brighten the rippling whitewashed roof and stone walls. Low wood-shuttered windows are bordered with bright blue flower planters. 

A man in a valet uniform waits in front of the entrance to a multi-car garage. Mulder slows next to him and rolls down his window. 

“I’ll be happy to take your car, sir,” the valet says. Mulder glances at Scully and shrugs. 

As they exit, a woman in her sixties appears at the front entrance to the house. She has the distinct air of wealth: impeccably highlighted blonde hair, convincible plastic surgery, and a loose silk jumpsuit. A thick, cable-knit cashmere cardigan is wrapped around her shoulders. 

“Don’t mind the valet,” she whispers to them. “It’s not a service we usually provide, but we have a number of families coming in for a tournament kick-off this afternoon,” she explains as Mulder and Scully approach. “I’m Portia Walsh.” She shakes their hands as they introduce themselves. “Please, come in.” 

The interior of the house is styled like a French countryside cottage. Mulder leans in to Scully. “I’d say it’s charming but I’m not sure that word applies to a 32 million dollar mansion.” Around them, a dozen caterers are busily setting up.

“I thought we’d talk in the library,” Portia suggests, stopping and indicating a door off the hall. “We’ll be out of the way here.” 

Mulder walks in and directly up to the large window overlooking the cliff. “This is a truly incredible place,” Mulder says to Portia, his hands in his pockets.

“My grandfather purchased the parcel. He built the house in the early 20s. It’s one of the oldest on 17-Mile Drive, and one of only 31 estates on the water,” she says. “I help keep it up, but I really can’t take any of the credit.” 

Portia hands Scully a steaming Wedgewood teacup and Scully smiles her thanks, sitting in a bright blue, overstuffed loveseat. “There’s milk and sugar here, Agent Scully. Help yourself.” 

Mulder declines tea and begins to slowly wander past the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, reading over the titles. 

“So,” Portia says after a sip. “Am I correct in assuming this visit regards Mary’s murder?” her face, bright and friendly before this, looks suddenly sorrowful. 

“Yes,” says Scully. “We’d appreciate your discretion as we have yet to confirm anything, but we have reason to believe that Mary’s murder is connected to a series of recent murders in Southern California.” 

Portia blinks rapidly, stunned, and places her cup down on the side table with an uncharacteristically graceless clatter. “Oh my God,” she whispers, shaking her head. 

“We were hoping you could give us a little background on her. Detectives Sanchez and Wilson informed us that she lived an isolated life, and that they couldn’t find anyone who professed to know her well.” 

“Well, I’m not sure how much help I can be,” says Portia. “I knew her when I was much younger. She worked as the housekeeper here, managing staff and maintenance, as well as arrangements for our family’s visits down from the city. She started working here when she was nineteen and I was sixteen. I was going through an ‘independent’ phase at that point and my parents allowed me to spend the summer here without them.” Portia smiles sadly. “At that age, when you find a kindred spirit… Well, relationships develop quickly.” 

Scully nods. 

“She became like a sister to me. There were many years between me and my closest sibling — I was the youngest, and everyone else was off at college or living on their own — and with a busy socialite mother and workaholic father, I’d never been close to another member of my household.” She waves her hand dismissively. “I’m not complaining; I recognize I lived a privileged life. But Mary meant a great deal to me. After that summer, I’d come down to Pebble Beach as often as I could: long weekends, holidays, whenever I could get away. Not always with my family, but thanks to me, I think, we spent a lot more time here than we would have otherwise. This golf tournament, for example: it became an annual tradition, which it never was before. Mary was an integral part of all our lives. I stayed close to home for college — attended Stanford — so even as my life grew busier, Mary and I still spent a fair amount of time together.” 

“But Mary became ill?”

Portia nods slowly. “At that point, she’d been working here eleven years. The Fine Arts Museums of San Francisco had just formed, and I was a junior member on the board. It took up much of my time; I hadn’t been down to Windy Cove in months.” She pauses and looks out the window for a moment before continuing. “I didn’t witness her decline. It’s one of my biggest regrets: that I wasn’t there for her.” She lets out a shaky breath. 

“My father was the one to tell me. You see, he did work in real estate development and had taken on a major expansion project for the Pebble Beach Resort. He’d been residing here during that time — for about two years, on and off. He said she’d been neglecting her duties, was getting forgetful and emotionally volatile, estranging herself from the staff — but he didn’t take action until the suicide attempt.” 

Mulder turns from the bookshelves to face them. “I’m sorry?” 

Portia looks up at him. “I would have thought the police would have mentioned it. She jumped — right out there.” She points out the window. “Where that bench is. She was found unconscious the next morning by the groundskeeper. She was diagnosed with manic depressive disorder. My parents put her in a residential treatment facility in Marin.” 

“Bridges?” Scully asks. 

“Yes.” 

“Agent Scully is a medical doctor,” Mulder tells Portia. “She tells me that’s a very expensive facility; apparently it’s world-renowned.”

“My father insisted on handling the bills. She was like family.” Portia’s eyes begin to shine with tears. “I tried so hard. I must have gone to visit her fifty times that first year — every weekend. But she refused to see me. I knew she was sick, but…” she inhales deeply, “I never understood.”

“Did you ever speak with her again? Maybe after she left Bridges?” Scully asks sympathetically. 

Portia shakes her head, looking down at her hands. “I knew she moved back to Carmel. Maybe five years before the murder? I called her once when I was in town, left a message and invited her over. I never heard back.” 

Mulder has been leaning against the wall, arms crossed. “Ms. Walsh, do you know if Mary ever had any children?” 

Portia looks up, caught off guard. “No, I don’t think so. I’m sure I would have known.” She thinks. “Unless she got pregnant at Bridges? It couldn’t have been after; she would have been sixty by the time she left.” 

Mulder looks at Scully and they make a silent agreement with their eyes before he turns away, leaving her to it. Scully readies herself for the hard question. “Ms. Walsh. This… isn’t an easy question for us to ask, and I’m sorry if it makes you uncomfortable. But we do need to know: did you or anyone in your family suspect your father of having an affair with Mary?”

Scully holds her breath, afraid the interview is over. To her surprise, however, Portia seems unphased. She sighs and pushes back her hair. “My mother suspected it from the very beginning. It was a point of contention between us — not to mention between her and my father.”  
  
“But you weren’t convinced?” Mulder asks. 

“Mary was practically my age. My father was in his fifties and she was _nineteen_ when she started working for us; that’s more than a thirty year age difference. The very idea of it was horrifying,” she explains. “At the time, anyway.” 

Scully arches an eyebrow and Mary looks back out the window. They wait for her to go on.

“When you’re young, it can be hard to conceive of how terribly flawed people can be… especially when you love them.” She pauses. “My ex-husband, for example. He left me for a twenty year-old. Three years ago.” 

“I’m sorry,” Scully says, and there’s genuine empathy in her voice.

“It’s fine,” Portia says. “Well, at least _now_ it is.” She leans in as if about to share a secret with Scully. “Turns out some women can be just as disgusting, and as a result, my first love is now also single. We’ve been seeing each other for a year. It’s never too late for love,” she smiles conspiratorially, then pulls back, turning serious.

“To be honest, I’ve thought about that question a lot in recent years — after what happened with my marriage.” Portia pauses. “A couple of years ago, I ran into an old family friend of ours in London. Our fathers were members of the Bohemian Club together. And he told me that in college, he and his girlfriend got pregnant unexpectedly. They wanted to get married but his father insisted they adopt the baby out. He said his father attended a talk at Bohemian Grove about some private service that manipulates birth and adoption records so that it’s like it never happened.” 

Portia’s forehead creases and Mulder and Scully’s eyes meet. “And he said that my father was the one who gave the talk.” 

Portia takes a moment, then continues. “This friend and his girlfriend — they ended up eloping and leaving the country, and so he didn’t have any further details to share with me about this… ‘service.’ He actually said he wasn’t convinced his father hadn’t just made it all up. But it made me wonder. _If_ it existed, why would my father know anything about that?” 

Portia shakes her head. “So yes. Looking back with these experienced, old eyes… I have my suspicions.” 

Scully stands, smoothing her skirt. “Thank you so much for your time, Ms. Walsh. We know you’re very busy today.” 

Portia stands. “It’s no problem. Anything that I can do for Mary.” She walks over to a wooden writing desk and pulls out a drawer, extracting two business cards. She hands one to each of them. “That’s my personal cell phone number and email. Please, contact me any time.”

Scully looks at the card. “This is a beautiful card.” 

Portia smiles broadly. “My daughter. She’s a graphic designer down in LA. Her ‘hallmark’ is incorporating her clients’ own handwriting.” Portia begins to stack the tea set on a tray.

“I’ll get that,” says a caterer who appeared unnoticed in the doorway.

“Oh, you’re busy,” Portia waves him off. “I can take care of this one thing.” 

Scully moves to help Portia with the tea. “Honestly,” Portia says to Scully, “the divorce was a nightmare, but I’d do it a hundred times over as long as it meant I’d have my daughter. Do you have children?” 

Mulder turns to look at Scully, protective. 

“No.” She swallows.

Mulder clears his throat, interrupting. “Could I ask you something unrelated, Ms. Walsh?” He points into a glass-enclosed bookcase. “What are these?”

“Those? Oh that’s my father’s collection of rare childrens’ books. I’m not sure how he got into it, but he spent hundreds of thousands on auctions over the years. In fact, Mary administered a lot of the bidding herself. My father said she had a good eye for it.”

“They’re beautiful books,” Mulder says. “I’ve been admiring them.” He walks over to help Scully with her coat. 

A caterer waits at the door as they exit the library. He leans in to whisper to Portia. “Ms. Walsh, we were hoping you’d take a look at the outdoor setup before we stage the bar. Whenever you have a chance.”

“We can see ourselves out,” Mulder offers, guiding Scully toward the door. 

“Alright. And again, don’t hesitate to call,” Portia says with a smile before heading off with her staff. 

* * *

Scully checks her phone as the valet brings the car around. “Chris says we can use the house. He says it’s a keypad entry so we won’t even need a key.” 

Mulder nods and pops a sunflower seed into his mouth, studying Portia’s card. It’s thick cardstock with a linen finish and gold leaf around the edges. What he assumes is her signature is embossed across it. Below, in clean text, her name, phone number, and email are listed. He assumes this is more of a calling card than a business card.

Mulder pockets the card and turns to Scully. “What did you make of James’s Bohemian Grove Lakeside Talk? Presidents and Secretaries of State give talks on nuclear policy and global economics and he gives one on cleaning up your messes after knocking up your mistress?” 

Scully shakes her head. “Well unfortunately we have no way of proving it even happened. But it can’t be a coincidence.” 

“No, it can’t.” A beat. “Where to next, boss?” Mulder asks.  
  
“Mary’s house?” Scully suggests. 

“Sounds good to me.” 

As they drive slowly back to the gate, Scully sighs. “Can you imagine waking up to this place every morning?” 

Mulder laughs softly. “In case you haven’t noticed, you’re pretty close as it is. A couple more successful investments on Chris’s part and you could probably move in next door.” He glances over at her, but she doesn’t react. 

Eventually, she pulls out a file. “Mary’s former home is on Scenic Road, along the beach.” She looks at her phone. “Actually, the house we’re staying at tonight is on the same road.” 

They make the fifteen-minute drive past fairytale cottages, sidewalk bistros, and art galleries. At one particularly adorable house, Scully turns to Mulder. “That house has a sign on it that actually says ‘Hobbit House,’” she tells him, smiling.

They slow to a stop in front of Mary’s address. It’s a small, Tudor Revival-style storybook stone cottage. Adorable flared eaves flank an irregular chimney resembling a rock pile. Behind a driftwood fence, a walkway lined with rose bushes leads to an arched wooden door. A large picture window faces the ocean, just across the street.

“Now _this_ is charming,” says Mulder. 

Scully looks down at her file. “Well it might not be a 32 million dollar mansion, but this cozy two bedroom cottage was valued at 4.3 million when she left it to the non-profit. It’s not a cheap house.”

“I see movement behind the curtains,” Mulder murmurs. “It’s occupied. I don’t think we’ll be able to get in.”

“Should we call? See if they’ll arrange something?” 

Mulder shakes his head. “I don’t see the point. We have all the crime scene photos and they seemed thorough.” He pops another seed into his mouth. “The real question here is how she was able to afford a house like this after having been institutionalized for thirty years. The answer isn’t inside that house.” 

He starts the car up and stretches his arms out, yawning. It’s only lunchtime, but he’s already exhausted. His right arm lands behind Scully’s headrest. He squeezes her shoulder. “Do you think we could swing by the house? Maybe spread out what’s in that box and take a deeper dive,” he nods toward the evidence in the backseat. 

His yawn is contagious. Scully finds herself yawning in response, and her head lolls against his hand as he massages her shoulder. “That sounds good,” she says over a second yawn. “It’s just a mile down that way.” 

He rubs her shoulder for a moment longer before shifting into gear.

  
  



	19. Chapter 19

Their lodging for the night couldn’t be more different from the Stafford Estate — at least in aesthetic. Both were certainly multi-million dollar homes, but this one was a sleek, modern three story home with clean lines, windows for walls, and drought-proof landscaping. Mulder hauls their bags out of the trunk as Scully enters the code into the keypad. 

The interior of the house eerily resembles Scully’s Santa Monica home: open concept, concrete floors, brass mid-century modern furniture, and a long, narrow fireplace along the side wall. There’s even a sinking glass wall at the back framing a panoramic view of Carmel Bay. This house’s patio, however, appears suspended directly above the water.

“Wow,” Mulder says. He sets their bags down in the entryway in front of a full-wall water feature. 

Scully gravitates toward the view of the beach, finding the controls to lower the glass into the ground. A cold gust of ocean air sweeps through the floor as she steps out, pushing her hair out of her eyes. She leans against the barrier; in the afternoon sun, her flaming red hair backlit by the bright blue sky, she looks luminous and otherworldly. It momentarily takes his breath away. 

A silver frame on the entryway table glints in the sun, catching his eye. To Mulder’s surprise, the frame contains a photo of a man and Chris, their arms around each other’s shoulders, laughter in their eyes. Mulder looks around for more pictures but can’t find any. He looks back at the photo, feeling caught — as though Chris has been watching him as he watched Scully. 

Mulder clears his throat. “I’m gonna find our rooms. Then I’ll start laying out everything we got on the dining table here,” he calls to her. She nods without turning.

He carries their bags up the open staircase to the second floor, where he assumes he’ll find the bedrooms. The first room he encounters is clearly the master. A large white tub sits near a glass sliding door overlooking the ocean. A memory flashes: them in her tub, her straddling him and his fingers gripping her hips as her body rises and sinks out of the water like a wooden mermaid on the bow of a ship. He wrestles his mind’s eye shut and leaves Scully’s luggage in the doorway. 

The next bedroom is smaller, connected to the master through a shared bathroom. He looks around but doesn’t see another option, so he decides he’ll have to stay here. The lack of sleep these past few days combined with the emotional strain of seeing Scully has weighed him down. He falls onto the bed, splayed out and spent, throwing an arm over his eyes. 

He hears her heels click up the stairs, stop at the master bedroom door, then walk the few steps to his. He lifts his arm and opens one eye to look at her. 

She’s leaning against the door jam, arms crossed, looking amused. “You got weak,” she teases, a hint of a smirk at her lips. 

He lets his arm fall back and groans dramatically. “Give me a minute Scully. I’m fucking exhausted.” 

A moment later he feels her weight on the bed and his eyes fly open. She’s lying parallel to him, eyes closed, but a safe distance away. She’s kicked off her pumps. 

He rolls onto his side to look at her but doesn’t bother to prop himself up. After no more than two minutes, his eyes widen: she’s fallen asleep. He can always tell because her breathing is deep and even; she really could fall asleep anywhere. He reluctantly sits up, reaches past her and pulls the throw blanket at the foot of the bed over her. She doesn’t stir. He bends down and presses a kiss to her forehead before hauling himself off the bed to get back to work. 

* * *

Scully wakes abruptly a full two hours later and is immediately mortified that she fell asleep. She sits up quickly and the room spins. 

“Mulder?” she calls to him as she descends the stairs barefoot.

“Right here.” She finds him sitting at the dining table wearing his glasses, his jacket and tie hanging over the back of the sofa. He puts down the photo he’s studying and looks up at her. “Hey sleepyhead.” 

Her hair is sleep-mussed and her eyes are a bit puffy, the way she’d look on a Saturday morning when she’d wake in his bed. He smiles. If he let himself, he could easily believe it's two years ago.

“I went into town and picked up some coffee,” he says standing to grab her drink from the kitchen counter.

“I’m so sorry, Mulder. I didn’t mean to fall asleep,” she apologizes as he passes her.

“No problem; you didn’t miss much.” Reflexively, he places his hand on the back of her skull, pulls her in and drops a kiss to the top of her head.

“Shit,” he mumbles. “Sorry.”

 _What the fuck are you doing_ , he scolds himself. He continues walking past her, flushed, then hands her her coffee cup, avoiding her eyes.

Gracefully as always, Scully sidesteps the awkwardness. “What have you found?” she asks after a sip, gesturing toward the dining table littered with evidence. 

“I’ve been thinking,” Mulder starts, “this has to be his first murder. He doesn’t use a gun like he did in the others, which at first I thought may have to do with how close the houses are on this street. But then I remembered that with the first and third set of murders, they practically shared walls with their neighbors. _Now_ he must be using a silencer, but with Mary, he used his bare hands. That was risky. I don’t think he came prepared to kill her.”

Scully nods. “That makes sense.” 

“And if this is where it starts, there’s something significant about _this_ murder. Maybe whatever set him off here is the reason for everything that follows, I don’t know.” 

Mulder chews his bottom lip and begins to pace. “I think he had some kind of personal relationship with Mary; he had to be _really_ angry with her to strangle her to death. Like I said, it was a risk, and we know strangulation is most commonly a crime of passion. Whatever made him snap could be related to his motive for all the subsequent murders.”

Mulder returns to the dining table and sits.

“Anyway, I started with Mary’s house. She got that 4.3 million dollar house somehow, and that’s the most inexplicable part of this case. There’s something missing from the picture, and whatever it is might help us understand what happened.” 

He picks up a set of photos and hands them to Scully. They capture the interior of the house at the time of the murder. “Look at these. Does anything seem off to you?” 

Scully sees the discrepancy immediately as she flips through the images. “The worn furniture, the tattered curtains, the bed linens, even — they’re old, and cheap — they don’t match the price tag of the house,” she mutters. 

Mulder nods. “The detectives pulled up her bank statement — she had just one checking account that she opened after she left Bridges — and her only income was her disability and social security. Obviously that was minimal. She didn’t have any debt, but still, with that income she could barely cover the property tax.” He hands her the bank statement.

“So I had someone at your office pull up the real estate records for the house. The purchase history lists only one buyer, three years before Mary moved in.” 

He turns his laptop so Scully can read it. “Portia Walsh,” she reads aloud.

Scully looks up at Mulder, stunned. “Do you think she was lying to us? I don’t know why but I find that hard to believe. She seemed so sincere.” 

Mulder shrugs. “I don’t know.”

“Wait a minute,” Scully says, fumbling in her jacket pocket. She pulls out the card from Portia and holds it next to the laptop screen displaying the transfer of ownership documents. Mulder stands to look over her shoulder.

“That’s not her signature,” Scully says, straightening up. “This was forged.” 

Scully’s phone goes off and they both jump slightly. 

“Scully,” she answers. It’s not lost on Mulder that this is the first time he’s heard her answer the phone as ‘Scully’ and not as ‘Dana.’ 

“Ok, ok, Julie? Slow down. I’m going to put you on speaker.” 

Scully lays the phone down on the dining table. “What’s going on?” 

“Hold on. I’m going to take this call in Dana’s office,” she says to someone, presumably Mark. They hear a door close.

“Dana, I called the contact you gave me and he said they won’t discuss services over the phone. He told me to meet with him tonight at some office park in Marina Del Rey. I asked to meet tomorrow and he said no, that they have procedures that require proof of pregnancy within 12 hours of initial contact or they won’t do business. That must be a safeguard against infiltration. Anne in Computer Forensics is in the process of doctoring a pregnancy test result using the fake name I gave them. But I also need to bring the father with me. I don’t have a father! This is a serious operation. Dana I don’t know if I can do this. I’m not prepared. I— I’m not rich, I don’t know that world, he’ll see right through me — But if I don’t show up, they’ll know someone is on to them, and—”

“ _Julie_ ,” Mulder stops her. “You’re spinning out of control.” 

“No shit,” she mutters before groaning loudly. 

“When is your meeting with him?” Scully asks.

“Eight tonight. He said they prefer meetings after seven, thank God.” 

“Ok,” Mulder says calmly. “You're right; it's too late to back out now and we don't have a lot of time to prepare. But you can do this. You’ll have a doctor’s proof of pregnancy, so you’ll be good on that front. And I was wrong to say that you need to sound rich. _You_ don’t have to be rich; the father needs to be.”

“Right, but I don’t _have_ a father because _I don’t have a baby_ ,” Julie shoots back, the panic springing back into her voice.

“Take Mark,” Scully blurts excitedly. "That's _perfect_."

“Mark?!” Julie screams. “Motherfucker!”

Mulder and Scully hear the door to Scully’s office open and Mark’s distant voice. “Jesus Julie, you don’t have to yell.” 

It’s probably because he’s delirious with exhaustion, but all of a sudden, Mulder decides this situation is absolutely hilarious. He starts to laugh silently, stifling it behind his fist. 

Scully, caught off guard by his reaction, starts to laugh, too. Mulder waves his hand at Scully to stop, throwing a pen at her. She’s making it so much worse.

“Put yourself on speaker and bring him into the room,” Mulder stutters, covering his laugh with a cough and landing himself solidly in a dining chair.

“Mark,” Scully begins, sobering, “This is… above your paygrade, so I want to be _very clear_ that you can decline this.” 

“This is a bad idea,” Julie mumbles. 

“I’ll do it,” Mark says confidently and somewhat defiantly. “What do you need?”

Mulder takes over. “Julie, I’m gonna assume that you’ve told Mark about this task.” 

“Why would you assume that I—”

“She did,” Mark confirms. 

“We need someone to accompany Julie tonight to this appointment — as the baby’s father,” Mulder says. 

Mulder is scrawling on his notepad. _Mark is rich?_ Scully glaces at it and nods. She mouths the word ‘billions,' and Mulder's eyes widen before he mouths back 'perfect.'

“It needs to be someone who knows the nuances of extreme wealth,” Mulder adds. “It needs to be believable. If by some chance they’ve identified Julie as an FBI agent, she absolutely needs to go in with someone who could conceivably afford their fees — or I’m sure they won’t talk.”

“And Mark,” Scully says, “we have reason to believe that this organization was promoted at a Lakeside Talk at Bohemian Grove.”

“Are you serious?” Mark blurts. “This whole thing is disgusting.” It’s the least neutral Scully has ever heard him.

“So you should mention your father. Right away. I’m not suggesting he’s a member, but I'm sure they will know his name. Tell them it was your father’s suggestion for the two of you to seek them out. That will be believable to them. You can tell your parents beforehand that you’re doing this if you’re worried about it getting back to them, but I’m sure it won’t; these people deal in secrecy, and they will know better than to spread information they don’t have to before landing a contract.” 

“But won’t they look me up?” Mark says. “What if they see I work for the FBI?” 

“Then be upfront with them about it,” Mulder says. “You’re not an agent — And besides, you will not be the first person in law enforcement they’ve dealt with. I’m sure of that,” Mulder adds darkly. “Your family’s money will mean more to them than your day job. As long as they believe Julie’s pregnant.” 

“Listen, there’s absolutely no reason at all to assume this is a dangerous task,” Scully asserts. “We don’t think anything could happen to you; we wouldn’t ask you to move forward with this if we did. But we now think we’ve linked our victim in Carmel to this service, so it’s a line of investigation we really need to pursue.” 

“Regardless,” interjects Mulder, “Julie, you should have backup outside. Go in wired.”

There’s a pause on the other end, then Julie whispers, “Who the fuck is your father?” 

Scully gives Mulder a guilty grimace. 

“Play your parts,” Mulder interrupts, trying to refocus them. “Come up with your backstories together, in case they ask. Where you met, how long you’ve been together. Julie, I don’t know — You’re, you're going to Yale Law next year or something and this can't get in the way.” 

“I’d never go back to Yale,” Julie mutters under her breath like a petulant teenager and Mulder lifts his arms to Scully in a ‘what is wrong with your kids’ gesture. 

Mulder goes on, ignoring her. “And Mark, you can’t be a nice guy. You need to act like you care more about covering up this pregnancy than you do about Julie. Can you do that?” 

There’s another pause. “Yes,” Mark confirms finally. 

“I want a report tonight, immediately after,” Scully says. 

“Okay,” Julie replies, exhaling. “Absolutely. We absolutely can do this.” She finally sounds more like herself, and her returning confidence heartens them both. 

Scully smiles at Mulder. “We know your can.”

* * *

“Who is your father?” Julie rounds on Mark as soon as they end the call. 

Mark sighs, rubbing a hand over his face. “He works at Tholos.” 

Julie crosses her arms. “The database software _every single business_ uses?”

He nods. 

“So just your run-of-the-mill software engineer, then?” she asks sarcastically. 

Mark shakes his head, avoiding her eyes. “CEO... and Founder.” 

“That explains the runes book being kept in ‘off-site wine storage,’” she says under her breath. “Well… Whatever. I guess why would it have come up.”

“Why does it matter?” Mark asks. 

“It doesn’t.” She drops her arms and starts walking toward the door. 

“Julie, wait. You— you told me once you hated all the legacy and trust fund kids at Yale — and how hard it was for you to be someplace where everyone had so much more than you but never worked half as hard. I was afraid you'd think I was like that.” 

She stops at the door, hand on the knob and turns back to him. “I said that to you? I don’t remember that.” 

“Well... I remember,” Mark says sadly. 

Julie nods slowly as he stares at the carpet. 

“You drive a Corolla,” she says finally.

He looks exasperated. “It’s what I can afford. With what I make. I don’t—” 

“I’m sorry,” she says evenly, “that’s not what I meant. I meant we need a nicer car. For the appointment tonight.” 

Mark doesn’t know if he’s relieved or terrified that she’s already changing the subject. “I’ll call Chris,” he mumbles. 

Julie opens the door and heads toward the exit, talking as she walks. “We’ve got four hours. I’ll arrange for backup and survaillence. Let’s meet back here in an hour to work on the backstory. We should keep it simple; as few lies as possible. Maybe stick with the facts around the one-night-stand on Sunday but say it happened two months ago. And let’s plan on meeting at six at your place. We’ll need to rehearse, and it’s closer to the meeting point.”

She doesn’t turn back to him once on the way out, so he doesn’t have to worry she caught the look on his face when she callously slapped him with the words ‘one night stand.’

  
  



	20. Chapter 20

By 6pm Mulder is passed out, slumped over a file at the dining table. Scully slides the file from under his arm and carefully removes his glasses. She runs her thumb over his cheek, barely touching the skin. She writes a note to him on a post-it: _Took the car to the market. Picking up dinner. -S._

Ten minutes after she leaves, Mulder wakes with a start. He blinks rapidly, looking around. He rubs his eyes. “Scully?” 

He spots the post-it and picks it up. He thinks of how she’d leave these on his computer monitor or inside of files, then later on his bathroom mirror when she’d head home in the morning before he woke. Long after she left, he’d opened a kitchen cabinet containing a dusty box of off-brand orange soda and found one affixed to the front: _This is disgusting. Do not drink. -S_. 

He folds the post-it carefully and stuffs it in his pocket.

Mulder wanders over to the glass wall. The sun is low in the sky, pink and yellow marbling with the afternoon’s bright blue. He fumbles for the control he saw Scully use to lower the glass, then steps out onto the patio. 

Even though his childhood wasn’t exactly happy, once in a blue moon he’ll stand in front of the sea and find himself imagining moving to Martha’s Vineyard, living out his days without monsters, without conspiracies, without losing battles. He closes his eyes and feels the sea spray on his face. These past few years, when he dreams of that life, Scully always sneaks into the frame. 

He decides he might as well go for a run along the beach; he really shouldn’t waste this view. Before he heads out, he leaves his own note for Scully: _Out for a run. Be back soon. -M_. He looks at the yellow square after he presses it to her laptop, sure he’s left this exact one for her before.

The early evening air is cold, and the wind stings his eyes. He encounters no men on his run — only young women clad in luxury athletic wear, pushing baby carriages and stopping to chat with friends driving by in Range Rovers. He tries to picture Scully as one of these women, but can’t quite make the pieces fit. These women are like the waves, steady water rolling peacefully against the sand; Scully is fire and light, more like the moon that dictates the tides than the water itself. 

Is it terrible, he wonders, to be her? Unlike him, damned since the outset, she deserves happiness, and stability, and ease. She deserves strollers and yoga classes. But instead she has a singularly brilliant mind, unparalleled expertise in dead bodies, and a serial murderer to track down — and he can’t help but feel it’s a little unfair that she’s always the best person for the job. 

He thinks of Chris, reluctantly considering he may be the right person to bring balance to her life.

He rounds the corner and comes upon a granite stone house set next to a haphazard stone tower. _Tor House_ , he remembers. When staying here that one summer long ago, he’d bought a collection of Robinson Jeffers’s poetry at a local bookstore after coming across his strange, solitary home on a bike ride. He stops, taking it in, remembering how those tragic and disturbing narrative poems stuck with him, haunted him for years.

A car door slams nearby, then he hears her heels on the pavement. Scully has parked the rental on a side road after seeing Mulder ahead. She walks up beside him. 

“What is this?” she asks. “It’s beautiful.” 

“Tor House. The poet Robinson Jeffers built it— as in, actually did much of the stonework himself. Back when he moved to Carmel in the 20s or so, the town was an artist enclave — not the luxury resort town it is now. All artists and academics. He and his wife wanted to get out of the city, go someplace secluded.” A seagull calls overhead. 

“See, their personal life was front-page news in LA — a bit of a scandal,” he explains, glancing sideways at her. “She was married when they met — to a prominent lawyer. She left LA with Jeffers after news of the affair broke. She divorced, and they moved here.” He chuckles then. “And if I remember correctly, she hated it.” 

Scully looks at him, questioning.

“Jeffers wanted to build a house for her himself, and from scratch — with granite from the beach down front,” he points across the street. “He had no idea what he was doing. The house ended up drafty, and the smoke from the fireplaces would get caught in the interior.” Mulder shrugs. “He wasn’t an architect. Or an engineer. Just a romantic, I guess.” 

“What’s this?” Scully asks, looking up at the irregular facade of the stone tower.

“He called it Hawk Tower. He built it as his writing studio. He’d sit at a small desk in front of that tiny top window there, all alone, working sometimes for days on end without coming down to see his family.”

“Sounds familiar,” Scully mutters, a teasing smile on her lips as she eyes him. 

“Don’t be mean,” Mulder huffs, rolling his eyes. “But wait, there’s more to this story. See that house back there?” He points to a similar stone structure 50 yards away, some four times the size of the one in front of them. 

“Huh. It looks just like this one. Except much bigger.” 

“For a reason,” Mulder says knowingly. “Turns out, Jeffers’s wife’s scorned ex-husband followed her here — bought the parcel of land right next door. He had his house built in the exact same style, and with granite from the beach, like theirs. Of course he didn’t do the manual labor; he used money and professionals. No drafty corners or threats of smoke inhalation — as if he wanted her to see how much better life could be if she left her delusional, work-obsessed husband and came back to him.”

Scully turns to Mulder. “Did she?” 

“Leave Jeffers? I think I remember reading she left him for a while. But she must have come back. They raised two sons, and she lived here until she died.” 

Scully pulls her coat tightly around her and looks up at the tower. “Money and comfort isn’t everything I guess.” 

He studies her profile for a long moment. Eventually, Scully speaks. “I’m going to head back, start dinner. You want a ride or are you running a bit more?” 

“I’m gonna finish the road. I should be back in a half hour or so. Are you cooking?” 

“I thought I would. Chris will have to pay for a cleaning service to come in after we leave anyway. Might as well make use of the place.” 

Mulder starts a slow, backwards jog away from her. “Since when do you cook?” he asks. 

“I don’t. Don’t expect much,” she calls back, and he nods before turning and setting off.

Later, he returns to thinking of Chris — of his fancy car, and his beautiful house, and his comfortable life. Mulder picks up the pace, running faster and faster until he’s sprinting directly into the dying sun.

  
  



	21. Chapter 21

Their second year together, Scully shot him. He was nursing his bullet wound and they were reeling from the loss of loved ones for reasons they would never fully understand. Scully was withdrawn, humorless, her eyes perpetually red and never quite meeting his. As usual when it came to her, he was slowly suffocating under the weight of his own remorse. 

One Sunday evening, he was laying on his couch wondering if it would be worse to stare braindead at another episode of Looney Tunes or actually stand the fuck up and turn the channel when there was a knock at his door. 

He sighed heavily and forced himself to his feet, looked through the peephole and was startled to see Scully on the other side of the door. 

Concerned, he hurriedly undid the locks. He called loudly through the door as he worked. “What are you doing here, Scully? Is everything ok?” 

He swung the door open and she nodded calmly, but she was still avoiding his eyes. She held up a paper bag. “I uh, brought dinner. I can tell you haven’t been eating well… I mean, even worse than usual— with your arm out of commission.” She indicated his sling. 

He smiled slowly, delighted and completely caught off guard. 

She had made a lemon whole-wheat pasta dish tossed with vegetables, paired with sides of chili-garlic broccoli and arugula salad. 

“Whole wheat pasta?” he mock-gagged, looking over her shoulder as she transferred it onto a dish. “Why would anyone do that to pasta,” he said into her ear as he reached over her head to open a cabinet and retrieve two wine glasses. He liked that she didn’t even have to duck, and he liked being close enough to her to feel the heat from her body. He lingered, his chest just barely touching her back, inhaling the scent of her hair.

He smiled to himself. Look at them, together in his small kitchen, doing something as domestic and benign as preparing dinner. 

For the thousandth time, he considered kissing her. And didn’t.

“Mulder, all you eat is simple carbohydrates,” she chided. “It’s not healthy.”

“Getting shot at by your partner isn’t healthy either,” he countered, setting the glasses down on the counter and reaching to grab the corkscrew from the drawer next to her hip. “Yet here we are.” 

She bumped his hand with her hip in reproach as he closed the drawer, smiling fondly up at him. It was the first time she made eye contact in weeks, the first time she smiled — and because of that, it was the best meal he’d had in a decade. 

Years later on a Saturday afternoon, as she lay on his sofa with her head in his lap, him running his fingers through her hair, she asked him what he wanted to do for dinner. He’d brought up that evening, which felt so much longer than two years ago. “You could cook that for me again,” he suggested. "That was good." 

She looked up at him, disbelieving — an expression he of course knew well. “When was that? And no one likes my cooking.” She eyed him suspiciously. 

“It might have been the painkillers,” he shrugged. “Come on; let’s go to the market. You haven’t shot me recently so I can even help you cook this time.” 

* * *

  
The sky is dark enough to have merged with the ocean horizon when he finishes his run and re-enters the house. He’s drenched in sweat despite the chilly night breeze. 

He smells lemon and garlic and knows what she’s making. He swallows, suppressing emotion. He’s fairly certain she doesn’t mean to stir up painful memories, but it’s hard enough as it is being near her again without this kind of thing.

He leaves his running shoes in the entryway and peels his shirt off, wiping the sweat from his face with it as he wanders toward the kitchen. 

“Jesus,” she says, looking at him. “How far did you run?” 

He shrugs. “I haven’t had any physical activity in a week. I needed to make it up.” He surveys her carefully organized ingredients. “Smells good,” he says and smiles at her with a tinge of sadness.

Her tongue darts out over her lower lip as she stares somewhere in the region directly above the elastic of his sweatpants. The look on her face causes his cock to twitch. 

“Um,” he mumbles, turning abruptly toward the stairs. “I’m gonna take a quick shower if that’s okay.” He’s out of the room before she can respond.   
  


* * *

Mulder bounds down the stairs, hair floppy and damp, in the same jeans and sweater from two nights ago. 

Scully is carrying the last of the food to the patio. “Is it alright if we eat outside? I turned on the heat lamps and fireplace. Should be comfortable.” 

He nods, picking up the two wine glasses she set out and the bottle, then follows her outside. 

They sit next to each other facing the dark water and eat in relative silence, taking their time. Every so often, headlights approach and a car drives past slowly, or a couple strolls by in thick jackets, holding hands. Happy tourists taking in the scenic drive. 

He considers complimenting the food, but he can’t see a way of doing so without bringing up the past. Instead, they watch the moonlight sparkle over the waves and listen to the crash of water against granite. 

“I think that’s Windy Cove,” Scully says squinting across the bay. “The long, low building that’s all lit up.” 

“I think you’re right. Weird how it looks even bigger from farther away.”

“Oh,” she starts abruptly. “I forgot to tell you: I booked our flight out tomorrow. It leaves at noon. I took care of the arrangements myself since we’ve set Mark off on other official FBI business.” 

He thinks briefly that he should ask her to stay here with him forever, then shakes it off. “What do you think will happen with that?”

“I think it will be uneventful. But I hope they get good intel. Whether or not this thing is related to the murders, it needs to be taken down.” She finishes the remaining sip of wine in her glass and he moves to pour her another.

“I guess…” she says watching the wine fill her glass, “it’s just hard to believe people could be that selfish. I understand not wanting to have an abortion, and I understand not wanting to keep a child you aren’t prepared for. But _this_ option— it seriously endangers the baby. I mean, for all you know it could end up with some wealthy pedophile if he’s the highest bidder. And these people who enter into these arrangements — they have means, and— and presumably, education. They should know better. They have no excuse. They just want to have their cake and eat it too: no guilt and no accountability,” she finishes angrily. 

“We will do something about it,” he assures her. “I’ll take it to Skinner if it ends up irrelevant to this investigation. I promise you.” He squeezes her shoulder, and she already feels better. He tends to keep his promises.

“Did you ever want kids?” she asks over her wine glass.

His eyebrows raise at the abrupt change of topic. “Umm…” He shrugs.

“When you were little?”

He laughs sadly. “When I was growing up, my family was such a mess I wouldn’t have even considered it.” He pauses. “But yeah, I've thought about it once or twice.”

Scully arches an eyebrow in question, looking at him pointedly. He looks away toward the bay, drinking down a gulp of wine. 

“Emily,” he admits — and not as a point of argument, but as a simple fact. “I thought about it then. Watching you with her… I don’t know, I didn’t expect to feel that way. Not in a million years. I just felt…” he grapples for the words, “like it was something I wanted. Something I could see making me happy.” His words feel both wholly inadequate and entirely accurate — which he suspects is the way everyone feels when asked to explain something as complex as their relationship to their children, or the prospect thereof.

He keeps his eyes trained on the water, then shrugs again dismissively, chuckling. “But who knows. I was so in love with you at that point I couldn’t even see straight.” 

They don’t speak for a while.

Mulder breaks the silence. “Can I ask you a question?” In his periphery, he sees her nod once. 

“Why didn’t you have the ova tested?”

“What?” She turns to face his profile.

“After you left. You said you called the clinic when you found the bill, so you knew your name was on the account. I made sure you’d have access to it in case anything ever happened to me. You could've tested them.” 

It dawns on her that she doesn’t know the answer. She never considered it.

He goes on. “You asked me if they were viable. So you didn’t know if they were. But... you never wanted to find out?” he asks, curious.

Scully opens and closes her mouth, then tries again. “I guess… I guess I didn’t need to know right then. I wasn’t sure I saw children in my future.” 

Mulder tilts his head in confusion. “But you did. With Emily.”

Scully inhales deeply. “That was different. Emily was already brought into this world. I didn’t have a say in that.” 

He nods, understanding.

“I honestly don’t know how I feel — about the idea of actively bringing a child into the world. Into _my_ world. I haven’t thought about it much.”

She takes another sip of wine and studies the dancing reflection of the moon.

“I was never the kind of person who wants children for the sake of having children,” she elaborates. “I had friends growing up who said they always knew they wanted kids. But I just wasn’t like that,” she tries to explain. “I knew from a young age that if I ever had a family, it would be contingent on circumstance — a confluence of factors: the demands of my career; my financial situation; how fit of a father I deemed my partner…” 

“Well all that seems more conducive now,” he forces himself to say. “You’re top brass; you won’t have to be in the field as much, or at all if you don’t want to. And Chris— he clearly has resources. You could even adopt if nothing else works out. You two could do it.” 

“No,” she says, expressionless.

His brow knits. “No?” 

“He doesn’t want children. I told him I couldn’t. We discussed it early on.” 

_Why would you tell him that if you weren’t sure? If you never tested the ova?_ He wonders to himself. 

“He’s probably just saying that. You tell him you can’t have kids, and he wants to hang on to you. I don’t blame the guy.” He pauses, considering, and the words are out before he can stop them: “He seems like he’d be a good father.” 

“You would be too.”

Mulder fills with unexpected emotion.

“Honestly,” she sighs, picking at her food and trying to sound unsentimental, “you were the only person with whom I ever saw myself having children.” She thinks for a moment. “Maybe that’s part of what hurt so much. That I felt that way about you — about us — and all the while you might have known it was a possibility… and you didn’t want me to find out.”

He turns to face her squarely now. “That is not how it was,” he tells her firmly, but without ire. “Scully, I know I shouldn’t have withheld any of it from you — even if you _were_ sick, even if I didn't think the ova were viable. And if I’m honest, you’re right: I don’t know for sure how I would have felt if you told me you wanted to have a child, either then or later down the line. But I never meant to control you, or hold you back — not when it came to something like this.”

He swallows and his volume decreases to a murmur beneath the waves. “I let you go, didn’t I? I didn’t come after you. I didn’t try to change your mind, or make it hard on you. It was what you wanted, and — yeah, it fucking killed me — but I knew you believed you’d be happier here… without me.” He reaches over and squeezes her hand. “I’m sorry if it didn’t feel like it, but your happiness was always my priority.” 

Finally, she meets his eyes, makes a thorough study of him. “I think I know that now,” she admits softly.

“I have to tell you something,” he says, pulling back. “I called the clinic after we talked at your place, the day I got in. I’m paying to have the ova transferred to a facility in LA.”

Her mouth falls open slightly.

“It’s fine; it’s safe,” he promises. “They assured me they do it all the time.”

She stares at him, not knowing what she wants to say next.

“Even if you aren’t sure they’re viable, or if you’ll ever want children… It should be with you. And this is your home now.” He gives her a sad smile.

At that moment, her cell chimes. She looks at the screen and holds it up to Mulder. It’s a Skype call from Julie. 

“Speaking of kids,” Mulder says, shooting up and sprinting over to grab Scully’s laptop from the dining table. 

He returns to the patio and sits next to Scully on the sofa just in time to answer the call. 

The window opens on Julie and Mark, who are inside Scully’s office and in the middle of laughing at something. 

“This looks like a good sign,” Mulder says, and they turn to face the laptop camera. 

Julie sobers, crossing her arms, but her eyes continue to smile. “It went very well.” 

Scully beams. “I knew it would. Tell us what you learned.” 

“We met with a man called Todd, though I doubt that’s a real name,” says Julie. “Mid to late-30s, caucasian, blonde hair, blue eyes, roughly 150 lbs and 5’9”. The office was entirely nondescript. Like a front. I'm not sure they use it very much.”

“They don’t,” interjects Mark, looking at Julie.

“How would you know that?” she asks suspiciously. 

“Didn’t you see the dust on the arms of our chairs? And the wall clock wasn’t on daylight savings time yet.” 

She stares at him for a second then turns squarely toward the laptop. “Let me know when you want to replace me on the team with this one,” she deadpans, pointing a thumb at Mark. 

“Anyway,” Mark says, “he did recognize my father’s name. After I mentioned it, he asked for our family home address and typed it into his computer. We are obviously unlisted, but he must have been confirming it with some sort of system because after that, he really opened up.”

Julie takes over. “He started by telling us the cost: $500,000 cash upon entry, then another $250,000 at the conclusion of each trimester. If there are complications during the pregnancy and more than routine prenatal care is required, the cost would go up.” 

“Holy shit,” mutters Mulder. 

“Mark asked the questions about how they guarantee confidentiality; I asked the questions on how they pick adoptive parents, and how they can be sure babies end up in good hands.” 

“He told us that their medical records are internal only and destroyed after birth,” says Mark. “All prenatal care is conducted out of a private, unmarked medical office somewhere near Beverly Hills — at least for this region.”

“ _This_ region?” Scully repeats.

“Right,” Mark nods gravely. “They have multiple offices; we don’t know how many or where and didn’t think it would make sense to ask. He just mentioned it when he told us we could opt to get care in one of the other cities — I assume if we were afraid of being seen. They have temporary residences near their clinics so the women can be nearby as their due dates approach.”

“And if you _can’t_ be nearby — if there’s any risk you’ll end up going into labor at another hospital — they schedule an early cesarean,” Julie says darkly. Scully shakes her head.

Mark continues. “On their records, the women are given identifying numbers so names are never used, and the men are just left off entirely. Once the babies are born, they manufacture birth certificates and — get this — they even somehow get the babies legitimate social security numbers.” 

Mulder thinks that of all the crazy things he and Scully have seen powerful people do, generating and assigning social security numbers is probably near the bottom. 

“The adoptive parents are found via word-of-mouth, whatever that means,” Julie rolls her eyes. “Obviously they don’t advertise. I asked how the adopting parties are vetted and his answer was that adoptions start at $2 million. I guess he considers wealth sufficient reason to trust they’ll be excellent parents,” Julie says, contempt bleeding into her tone. “I pushed for more and all he told me is that they perform background checks including criminal, and that they send a ‘case worker’ — that’s what he called himself, by the way, a ‘case worker’ — to do home visits three times a year for the first three years… Although I assume since the entire process is secret, there’s really no way for you as a birth parent to confirm the visits are even being done. They say there’s no paper trail at all — no way to confirm parentage, or for birth parents to ever find out where their babies ended up.”

“Did you ask anything about their history? How long they’ve been doing this?” Mulder asks.

“He told us nearly 75 years, Mark answers. “I don’t know how you’d verify it though.”

“Tell them what you did,” Julie elbows Mark. He stares back at her confused. “Before we left.” 

“Oh! Right. Well when we reached what seemed like the end, I asked Julie to step out so ‘Todd’ and I could discuss the financials. It seemed like the kind of thing a dick would do,” he shrugs. 

“I didn’t know what he was doing so to be honest, I was a little panicked,” Julie confesses. 

“After Julie left I asked him what would happen if she changed her mind. As in, if Julie decided she wanted out of the arrangement and wanted to keep the baby.” 

“What did he say?” Mulder asks leaning in. 

“He said it happens all the time. Then the fucker said — and I quote: ‘We are well practiced in dealing with that kind of thing,’ and ‘nothing has ever gotten to the point where we couldn’t take care of it quietly.’” 

Julie is staring sideways at Mark. “You just said the F-word.” 

Mark pushes her shoulder without looking at her. 

“This is incredible,” Scully says, shaking her head in admiration. “You guys did an incredible job. Especially you, Mark. No offense to Julie, but Mark’s the one who went above and beyond here,” she says. 

Mark flushes. “It was nothing. The worst part was keeping this one from falling apart,” he indicates Julie. 

Julie grimaces. “He’s not joking. I couldn’t have done it without him.” 

Mulder’s not sure, but he thinks he makes out Julie’s arm wrapping around Mark below the camera frame. “We’ll let you go,” Mulder says. 

“We’re back in town tomorrow; we’ll be in the office by two,” Scully informs them. 

“Good,” Mark says. “In case you were back, Julie had me schedule a meeting with all the team leads for tomorrow at 3pm.”

“I thought it would be good for all of us to be in the same room when we go over what was uncovered on victim pregnancies.”

“Perfect,” agrees Scully. “We can cover what we learned about the Carmel victim as well.” 

“And the runes, or whatever they are,” Mulder adds. “I’d like to hear whatever anyone’s come up with on that, even if it might not seem useful.”

Julie looks deliberately at Mark. “Uh…” she starts, “I think we might have something on that front.” 

Mark glances at her. “No, not yet,” he says to Scully and Mulder. He leans in and whispers something to Julie, which Mulder thinks was something along the lines of “I want to be sure.” 

She’s whispering something back when Mulder nudges Scully. “Let’s let the lovebirds go,” he mutters, and Scully suppresses a smile.

“Whatever it is,” Scully says loudly to Julie and Mark, interrupting their clandestine conversation, “it can wait until tomorrow. We’re hopping off. Good work, again.” She reaches forward and shuts the laptop. 

Mulder leans back and downs the rest of his wine. He turns his head toward Scully, resting his cheek on the back cushion of the sofa, his face serious. 

“You know they’re gonna bang tonight,” he says, and Scully bursts out laughing, lunging for him. “Shut up, Mulder! Oh my God, that is so inappropriate!” She pummels his chest with slaps. 

He chuckles, entirely self-satisfied that he got this much of a rise out of her. He catches her by her forearms and holds them in midair, suspending her assault. When she stills, their faces are close enough to touch; the air crackles with tension, their smiles dissipating from their lips.

“Was that true?” she asks before she thinks better of it, her eyes searching his. “About Emily? About how you felt then?” 

He nods, then rubs circles on her left wrist with his thumb. She wets her lips with her tongue.

It seems impossible not to kiss her, but at the same time, it’s impossible not to think of Chris. Of his comfortable charisma. Of babies in strollers and family vacations to their Hamptons house. Of the sound of her laugh still ringing in his ears, all too infrequent when she was with him. 

He lets her arms go slowly, dropping his eyes. But he could swear that before he does, he sees his own crushing regret mirrored back at him.

  
  



	22. Chapter 22

He senses her before he opens his eyes. She stands to the right of the bed in front of the window, backlit by the moon. Her beige silk robe is loosely tied and she’s naked underneath. His eyes are drawn to the shadowy valley between her breasts. 

It takes a moment for him to realize he’s not dreaming. When he does, he sits up, scratches his bare chest and swings his legs over the edge of the bed, planting his feet on the carpet. He rubs his face into alertness with his hands. “What’s going on?” he croaks, his voice rough with sleep. “Did something happen?” 

He looks up at her but she’s silent, the only sound in the night the ocean waves coming to shore. Instinctively he reaches an arm toward her. “C’mere,” he mumbles, an innocent offering made while still half asleep. 

She doesn’t oblige. 

“What’s wrong?” he asks, growing concerned.

“Do you still love me?” she asks evenly, every single thing about her maddeningly unreadable. She asks it like she’s asking if he remembered to pack his laptop charger. 

His arms fall heavily to his sides. He turns his head from her, focusing instead on the open bathroom door. He chews on his lower lip, not knowing what to say, not knowing why she’d ask. He doesn’t want to play this game. 

He turns back to her just as she closes the distance between them, parting his knees with hers and coming to stand between them. Her hands are cradling his face and she’s kissing him before he realizes it. 

It’s as if a dam inside him breaks open. He brings his hands to the back of her head, holding her steady as his tongue drives in her mouth. She fumbles with the tie on her robe and it slips open easily. She trails her hands down his torso, grips the side of his ribs, leaving deep crescents dug in by her nails. 

He reaches down to circle her firming nipples with his thumbs, hastily laps at his palm before covering her breast, squeezing roughy. He’s been kissing her with such desperate frenzy he feels himself growing lightheaded from a lack of oxygen. He pinches her nipple and her head falls back. He splays a palm against her back, coaxing her closer to his mouth as he sucks at one breast, and then the other. His other hand clumsily pushes back the hem of her robe, but it’s so silky smooth it takes his shaking fingers several tries to get beyond it. It can’t happen fast enough. 

Finally he enters her with two fingers, pushing deep inside her without hesitation, needing to hear her gasp against his mouth, feel her clench her tight cunt around him. 

“ _Yess—_ ” she hisses, nipping at his chin. 

“Yeah?” He asks breathlessly, circling her clit with his thumb. “Is that good? This why you came here?” 

She nods wordlessly, grips his flexed forearm. She’s oozing slip, seeping out over his knuckles; she must have been wet for him before she came through the door. His other hand reaches around and kneads her ass. He carefully studies her face. If he’d known it was the last time back then, he would have made a point of remembering every second of it. He won’t make that mistake again. 

She reaches her hands down to tug his boxers off and he lifts himself off the bed. He helps her, yanking them down to his ankles and kicking them off as if they’re made of fire.

He adds a third finger inside her, and she’s so tight he has to hold her down by her hip bone to get at her with more force, pumping into her furiously. She cries out, grips his upturned cock as if to steady herself. Her hand is cool and soft. She strokes him weakly, lazily spreading the bead of wetness at his tip with her thumb, too rapt by the feeling of his fingers inside her to focus on anything else.

He grits his teeth, already feeling like he’ll come any second now into her pretty little hand. _Not yet not yet not yet._ In his mind he imagines himself fucking her all night, making her come with his mouth, then on her hands and knees, then against the headboard with her legs draped over his shoulders. Maybe even outside, her straddling him on that patio chair while he thrust up into her — her hands tugging at her short robe to cover her sweet, bare ass, her teeth in his shoulder to keep from screaming.

He growls as the fantasies overcome him, tears her hand off his cock to stop her from touching him. He pulls her head to the side and assaults her neck with his mouth, sucking hard, consciously or unconsciously trying to leave his mark on her. But she pushes him away. 

“No,” she breathes. “Not there.” 

He pulls back to look at her. “Why?” he whispers almost harshly, punctuating his question with a hard thrust of his fingers. Her eyes are closed tightly, forehead creased, her mouth parted. 

He withdraws his fingers from her and her eyes fly open in protest. 

“Why not here?” He demands again, moving back in for the side of her ivory neck, grabbing her hips to keep her from retreating.

She pushes him back gently with her hand. “We can’t— It will show. He’ll see.”

Mulder feels like he’s been slapped in the face — like a bucket of ice water just dropped onto his head from the sky.

He realizes that only now is he truly awake.

His arms fall to the mattress, and despite everything they’ve been through, every horrible thing visited upon them, in this moment he looks more devastated than she’s ever seen him. 

His head hangs and he runs trembling fingers through his hair. Unbidden he thinks of a Cirque du Soleil show he saw once, the gymnasts scrambling up a vertical wall only to have it shift beneath them, ejecting them back toward the floor. Some big-budget version of the sisyphean nightmare that is his life. He presses the sides of his skull together with his hands, trying to get a grip.

“I can’t, Scully. I can’t do this. It’s not fair to Chris.” He feels like he might throw up from saying the name aloud when she’s here like this and he’s hard and heartbroken. 

“It’s not fair to me,” he adds finally.

She stands statue still, glowing in the moonlight as if touched by Midas. He squeezes his eyes shut and clenches his fists, fighting hard against threatening tears. 

“If— if you could tell me you’ll end it, if you could tell me it’s me you want—” he stumbles through inadequate words, his voice breaking. “If you— then I could maybe— but if I’m still not...” he trails off miserably, turning his face from her in a vain attempt to conceal his anguish. 

She studies him, so raw and broken. For the first time she notices the weight he’s lost, the deep lines forming at his eyes. Suddenly she feels lucidity break like a light flicked on in a dark room — as though she’d been bewitched until now. An immediate and pulverizing wave of shame and hopelessness crashes over her, and she goes weak. Why can’t she do any of this right? 

She’s sobbing now and he reaches his arms to her, pulls her in and holds her ferociously, anchors her while the storm rages around her. 

“I’m sorry,” she weeps, her breaths hitching hard in her throat, making sentences impossible. “I’m sorry, Mulder, I’m sorry I’m sorry, I don’t— I’m sorry,” she cries into his chest, apologizing for this and all of it, any semblance of self-possession having slipped away. He smooths her hair at the back of her head, tries pointlessly to hush her, presses his wet cheek to hers and his lips over her freely leaking eyes. “It’s okay,” he soothes. “We’re okay.” 

Her breasts are crushed against his naked chest, her nipples still firm peaks, and he’s growing dizzy with the intoxicating scent of her arousal. He tries not to think about it but his erection reemerges absurdly with its own agenda, as if now that she’s so close, it thinks it can grow until it finds its way back inside her. 

He steadies his breathing, focuses on her. She’s calming, her staccato intake of breath growing level and quiet. He runs his hand up and down over her silk-clad back in time with the waves, listening to her as her trembling subsides. 

Finally she pulls back and looks at him, eyes brimming with guilt. He presses his forehead to hers and smiles sadly, but says nothing. He lifts his hands and wipes the final tears from her cheeks, kisses her eyes. “Come on,” he whispers, pulling her along with him as he reclines on the bed. She nods her ascent, climbs on to the mattress as he scoots back to make room for her. She rests her head on his chest, and he rests his hand on her head. She listens to his slowing heartbeat, breathes him in, and he relishes the familiar weight of her against him. Scully feels a peace settle over them like a warm blanket in winter. 

She pulls her leg up over his, bending her knee. Her bare thigh grazes his erection and he startles, tensing and jerking abruptly away from her. 

She looks up at him. “I’m sorry,” she whispers, so sincerely he almost laughs out loud. 

He smiles and shakes his head at her. “Don’t worry. It won’t be the first time the idea of Dana Scully got me hard and no one finished the job,” he mutters lightheartedly, kissing the top of her head. 

There’s a beat before she reaches across for his left hand, the one not stroking her hair. She takes it in hers, then brings it down to his erection, wrapping their fingers around it. He inhales sharply and bucks into their hands on reflex. She looks up at him from under her lashes. “Finish,” she urges, removing her hand from his. “I won’t do anything. I won’t touch you.” 

“Scully,” he rasps, lust surging from the groin and electrifying his body. “We shouldn’t.” 

“ _We_ won’t do anything,” she counters, pulling back from him. “Here,” she offers. 

She reaches down to coat her hand in her own slip, a certifiable mess spread all over her thighs. She brings her hand back to his, nudges it aside and transfers her thick juices onto his cock, slathering it from root to tip, then rewetting her hand and running it over his balls.

“Oh, _fuckkkk_ ,” He curses loudly, lifting his hips off the mattress and pushing himself into her hand. She pulls away.

She props herself up on an elbow, looking at him intently. “That’s it,” she says quietly. “I won’t touch you again.” She rests her forehead against his. “I just want to see you. Please.” 

But by this point, he needs no encouragement. He’s thrusting wildly into his hand, gripping himself tightly, their eyes locked. Then his eyes move down to her gaping robe, to her breasts and her bare stomach. His free hand seizes the sheets to stop himself from grabbing her. His mouth is slack, his breathing labored. He wants to do this forever and not at all. 

He feels himself on the brink, and he sobs her name. She nods against his forehead, her eyes dark with lust. When he realizes she’s working her own clit with her hand, he hurls over the edge. As he comes, his restraint snaps like a weak twig and his lips collide with hers. Both her hands fly to his face, holding him as he kisses her, comes hard against her thigh.

He’s panting, too relieved to be ashamed, too spent for regret. He keeps his lips pressed to hers almost chastley for a moment longer, then rolls off the bed to fetch a washcloth from the bathroom and clean her up. After he’s rinsed and set the washcloth in the hamper, he returns to the bed and finds she’s already drifted off. He crawls in next to her, lays on his side and watches her, listens to her, all the while tenaciously battling off sleep for just one moment longer.

When he wakes to the sun coming up over the ocean horizon, he’s not even remotely surprised to find her gone.

  
  



	23. Chapter 23

She’s packed, buttoned up, and pristine when he comes down the stairs carrying his overnight bag. She’s standing at the glass wall drinking from a steaming cup; she doesn’t turn to acknowledge him. He walks over to the kitchen and pours coffee into a mug she’s left out for him, eying her back as he does so. 

He clenches his jaw and debates what to do next. Eventually, he walks over to stand beside her.

“I’ll miss this view,” she says finally. 

He nods, takes another sip. 

“It’s so beautiful.” 

Mulder shrugs, taking a quick sideways glance at her. “You’ll be back. It’s just up the coast.”

She finishes her cup and checks her watch. “We have time for breakfast. Do you know a place?” 

“Yeah, actually, if it’s still there.” He downs the rest of his coffee. “It’s in town.” He gives her a perfunctory smile and takes her mug from her. He leaves their cups in the sink, side by side, and they drive to town in silence.

* * *

The restaurant is charming. It’s a similar style structure to Mary’s house: a fairytale cottage with vines running up the yellow stone walls. It’s a weekday, so theirs is one of the only occupied tables. They’re seated by the large front window. After Scully orders her egg whites and Mulder his breakfast burrito, she rests her head in her hand and surveys the street. 

“I’ve never seen a place like this,” she says quietly. “Except maybe in Disneyland.” An old-fashioned candy shop in a storybook cottage sits across from them, flanked by cobblestone alleyways lined with flowers and bistro tables. At the end of the main road, the ocean peeks through the old cypress trees. The place seems as surreal as what happened the night before. 

He’s trying to seem occupied with the task of stirring a sugar packet into his coffee while he thinks of something to say. She crosses her legs under the table and her knee brushes his. She flushes. 

_Work_ , he tells himself. Work has always been easy for them to discuss, unlike everything else.

“So, since it’s looking more and more like this baby-selling agency is related to the case in some way, what do you see as the connection?” he asks her. 

She lifts an eyebrow, considering, still staring out the window. “Well, until we hear otherwise, it seems the victims have all been the birth mothers, not the adopters. Maybe the victims were clients who changed their minds? Who rocked the boat in some way — maybe even threatened them with exposure or legal action?” 

Mulder nods over his mug. “It would make sense.” He pauses. “The thing I don’t get, though, is the carvings on the nightstand. I can’t see a professional hitman going out of his way to leave something so cryptic behind. Actually I can’t see a professional leaving _anything_ behind.”

Scully bites her lower lip. “You’re right.” 

He sighs heavily. “I’ve got to crack this carving thing. They aren’t identifiable runes of any kind, so what are they? Until I know I’m afraid I won’t have enough to figure out who we’re looking for or what he wants.” 

Their food arrives. She points to his burrito. “Whole wheat tortilla?” she notes skeptically. 

“And soy chorizo. I ordered the Mission Burrito: the healthy, vegan option,” he says, looking at her. “I didn’t want a lecture this early in the morning.” He kicks her gently under the table and she gives him a tight smile. 

“You know,” she says, “that thing Mark and Julie said about offices throughout the country — that’s been bothering me.” 

“I know,” he says with a full mouth. “Me too.” 

“Could there be more murders in other states linked to these ones?” 

Mulder chews, considering. “It’s possible. We should call Julie, have her team look into that before the 3pm.” 

Scully reaches for her phone, then checks her watch. “I think I’ll let her sleep in for another hour. I’ll call her from the airport.” 

“But if you call her _now_ , you might be able to tell if she stayed at his place.” He waggles his eyebrows. 

Scully smiles but leans back, looking to the ceiling in exaggerated exasperation. “She did not, I’m sure.”

“Do you wanna make a bet? Whoever loses pays for breakfast.” 

“ _Work_ pays for breakfast,” she shuts him down. 

“He’s good, you know.” Mulder gestures with his fork to get her attention. “Your assistant.” 

“I do know,” she agrees. “That’s why I hired him.” 

He shakes his head, taking another gulp of coffee. “No, I think he’s better than an assistant.” 

“I know that too,” she sighs. 

“What’s his story?” 

“Went to Stanford, Anthropology and American Studies, graduated summa cum laude. He worked as an executive assistant for someone at NBC for the past six years.” 

“Hmm. Doesn’t seem like his kind of scene.” 

“I don’t think it was,” she agrees. “His references said they tried to promote him, but he declined. And he took a major pay cut when he came to work for us.” 

“Well from what I heard yesterday, it sounds like he doesn’t need the money.” 

Scully is silent for a moment, thinking. “He works hard, though. Really hard. You wouldn't know it. There’s no sense of entitlement — not more than you’d usually find in our circles. To be honest, I feel terrible that I spilled the beans. If you’re right and he really does have feelings for Julie, I’m afraid I didn’t do him any favors. Julie _loathes_ trust fund babies.” 

“That fits with my profile of her,” Mulder says. 

“Shit,” Scully mumbles under her breath, the fear manifesting the more she thinks on it. 

“I wouldn’t worry,” Mulder waves it off. “Did you see the way she was looking at him last night? He clearly won her over.” 

Scully scoffs. “So what, you think she’s ‘in love’ with him now, too?” She uses her fingers as quotation marks. 

Mulder shrugs, a sly smile on his lips. 

“You know he’s only been working here for three months, right?” 

“I _didn’t_ know that, but I don’t see why that matters.” 

“He’s not falling in love with someone in three months. And Julie _definitely_ wouldn’t. No one would.” 

Mulder shakes his head as he chews. “I don’t know. It happens. I fell in love with you so quickly it was embarrassing.” He considers. “And I don’t think I would have ever pegged myself as someone who could do that.” 

She wants to change the subject, but she also wants to know. “When?” she asks. “When do you think…?”

“I don’t really know,” he says simply. “I’ve thought about it a lot. Maybe Bellefleur, in the rain? In my room that night? Definitely happened before I realized it had.” He shrugs nonchalantly and finishes the rest of his coffee.

“When did you realize it?” She can’t stop herself. 

“Ugh,” he groans. “Rob.” 

“What?” she asked, bewildered. 

“Rob. That guy you met at your godson’s party or whatever. That date you went on.” He covers his eyes with his hand. “It was so embarrassing. I actually called the gunmen to do a fucking background check.”

“ _What?_ ” she says again. It couldn’t be. They’d only been working together two or three months at that point. 

" _Frohike_ scolded me. Frohike! He said, and I quote, ‘This is not what we do, man. We’re not strip mall PIs here to help you with your love life.’ And yes, I _do_ remember it verbatim. Because it was _that_ humiliating.” 

“Oh, Mulder,” she laughs sympathetically, looking at him like he’s a toddler confused by shoe laces. “No, Mulder, that’s called a _crush_. You weren’t in love. You barely knew me.” 

The check comes, distracting Scully, who digs around in her purse to extract her FBI purchasing card. 

Mulder sets his fork down and wipes his mouth with a napkin. “Sure, fine, whatever.”

The waitress takes their check and Mulder is feeling mischievous again. He taps the back of Scully’s hand with his index finger. “Come on, let’s call her. Maybe we’ll be able to gather some evidence — figure out if they spent the night.” 

Scully bites her lip, thinks, then acquiesces. She dials Julie’s number and sets the phone on speaker. It almost goes to voicemail before someone comes over the line.

“Hello?” answers a male voice.

Mulder’s eyes widen to saucers and Scully’s hand flies over her mouth. Mark answered Julie’s cell. 

“Uh… Scully manages to say. “I’m so sorry Mark, I thought I was calling Julie.” 

Mulder stands, balls Scully’s napkin and shoots it like a free throw over her head and into the wastebasket behind her. Scully fires a reproving look and brings the phone to her ear, taking it off speaker.

She hears the rustling of sheets and something crash to the floor. “Shit,” Mark mumbles and Scully swears she hears a woman say something in the background. 

Mulder is back to sitting now. He leans his chair back, balancing on its back legs and with his hands behind his head. “This is _way_ better than I thought it would be,” he whispers loudly, and she kicks him under the table hard.

Mark finally responds. “Um yeah, no, um you are. You did call her. I— I think we accidentally switched phones last night?” He says this like it’s a question.

“Yes. No, that makes sense.” Scully tries to sound convinced. “I’ll try your phone then. Maybe she’ll answer.” 

“Uh huh.” Mark is dazed, hesitant.

“Take your time getting in. You worked late last night. See you this afternoon,” Scully says by way of goodbye.

Scully looks shell shocked. Mulder eyes her pointedly. “You better call _his_ phone now or they’ll be suspicious.” 

Scully cringes and dials Mark. After a half ring, Julie answers. 

“Owens,” she answers, a little too professionally.

“Julie, it’s Dana. We were thinking about the multiple offices for this agency — how they’re all over the country. It would be great if you could assign a few agents to look into whether any similar murders have happened. Maybe start near large cities.” 

“Oh,” Julie says, sounding relieved. “I already sent an email to that effect to Amber’s team last night.” 

“Oh fantastic. Thanks, then.” 

There’s a long pause. “See you soon,” Scully signs off. 

She shakes her head amusedly, smiling at Mulder. “Wow.” 

“Hey you know what? Good for them. At least _someone’s_ getting laid,” Mulder chuckles. 

He immediately wants to reel those words back into his idiotic mouth. 

Scully looks down, cheeks pink, hurriedly signs the check and replaces her card in her wallet. 

“Scully, I didn’t mean that.” 

She shakes her head. “It’s fine.” She stands abruptly and heads for the door. 

He jolts up after her but knocks over his water glass. “Shit,” he hisses, wiping at the spill hastily with his napkin. He dashes out of the restaurant to find her walking briskly down the sidewalk toward the car. 

“Scully, wait.” He runs up to her and grabs her arm. She resists turning back to him so he moves himself in front of her, blocking her path and holding her shoulders.

Her eyes are wet and her face is scarlet. She looks down. “I’m sorry about last night,” she says quietly. “I shouldn’t have done that. I don’t know what I was thinking.” 

He shakes his head. “It’s okay if you feel guilty; it’s— it’s probably a good thing that you do.” He touches a finger to her chin and she looks up at him. “But you don’t have to apologize to me. If that’s the last time we… I mean, I got to be close to you last night in ways I thought I never...” He trails off, his heart aching. 

He inhales deeply and tries again. “Look. I know this doesn’t make me a good guy, but last night... I don’t wish it didn’t happen.” 

She stares past him for a long moment, lost in thought.

“Do you ever wish things were different?” she asks, sounding not exactly broken, but possibly breaking.

Mulder huffs out a sad laugh. “Only every second of my life.”

He leans forward, tucks a lock of hair behind her ear. She still won’t meet his eye — but that will make it easier to say what he needs to. He swallows hard.

“The thing is,” he says slowly. “Hypothetically. I could give the person I love—” he shakes his head, searching for the words, “every single part of me. Every single thing that I have and that I am. But I couldn’t give her safety. Or stability, or— or peace. Who I am — I come with sacrifices that no one should have to make. I’m not good for anyone… but I’m even worse for the person I love.” 

He thinks of the chemical smell of oncology wards; of hopeless ova; of Skyland Mountain; of Melissa’s blood on Scully’s hardwood floor. 

“I wish I could just be happy, and make someone else happy; I _wish_ it were different. But it’s just— not.”

“And I think…” he ventures, “I think it might be the bigger reason you left.”

She doesn’t contradict him.

“The life you built here — it’s everything I can’t give you.” She continues to look beyond him. “And if that _is_ the reason you decided to leave,” he tilts his head back, squints up at the sun, “it’s a good one.” 

The sun burns black spots into his field of vision, and he lets it. If you could hear a heat break, he thinks, it’s the sound that would accompany his admission. 

She processes this a moment, then nods slowly. He pulls her in and kisses the top of her head. 

As Mulder climbs into the car, Scully takes one last look around at the fairytale town, wondering if the people who built it really believed in happily-ever-after, or if they just wanted to pretend. 

This place really is surreal.

  
  



	24. Chapter 24

At 2:47pm, Mulder drags his and Scully’s luggage into her office. Mark stands to greet him. 

“I’m sorry we’re so late. This LA traffic is a nightmare. Why does rush hour start before two in the afternoon?” Mulder grumbles. “Can I leave these in here?” He drops their luggage along the wall.

“Of course. And it’s always rush hour in LA. Once I actually started crying in my car because it took me two hours to move five miles. At 11 at night.” 

“No offense, but this city is awful.” 

“None taken. Trust me, I’m well aware.”

“Scully stopped by the lab on her way in,” Mulder informs him. “She’ll be here in a sec.” He’s fumbling with his coat, finally gets it off and drapes it over his luggage.

Mulder reaches to shake Mark’s hand. “Hey, you did really excellent work last night. I think it may have been the break we needed.” 

Mark returns his shake with incredulity. “I don’t know about that.”

“Yeah, actually.” Mulder pauses. “Hey, can I ask you something? Have you ever considered applying to become an agent?” 

“Wow.” Mark is taken aback. “No. No, I couldn’t do what you and Dana and Julie do. I don’t think I have that kind of… confidence? I’m more of a behind-the-scenes kind of guy,” he says smiling, but a slight blush emerges at the compliment. 

Mark reaches down and pulls a paper bag onto his desk. “I assume you two haven’t eaten. I had two quinoa bowls delivered from the salad place Dana likes.” He extracts a bowl and fork from the bag and hands it to Mulder. “I really have no idea if that’s edible.” 

Mulder looks at it suspiciously. “She’s been on me about my diet since I met her. I’ve learned it’s better to eat well in front of her than to face a repeat performance of her exhaustive speech on blood sugar.” He shakes the bowl a bit, studying the contents. “She still doing that thing with the bee pollen in yogurt? 

“Yeah...” Mark says slowly. “I really— Yeah, that’s one I really don’t get. Except she puts it in green juice now.” He grimaces. 

Scully pushes open the glass door and heads straight for Mark’s desk. She squeezes his arm. “Thank you so much again for last night.” 

“It was no problem. It was kind of fun, actually.” Mark tries and fails to hide a smile as he pulls her lunch from the bag on his desk. “Here you go.” 

“You’re a lifesaver,” Scully says. Mulder and Scully sit in the two chairs across from Mark and start eating.

Mark turns and retrieves a stack of papers from his printer, handing two to Mulder and Scully. “That’s a rough agenda for the three o’clock. Julie and I drafted it at lunch.” 

“It would be great if you could come to that.” Mulder glances at Scully to see if he’s overstepped. 

“You should,” she concurs. 

Mulder spoons another bite into his mouth. “Scully this is disgusting,” he says, not looking up from the agenda. 

She ignores him. “We’re not going to share information with the group about this agency. I want to keep that as under wraps as possible for now. We don’t want to risk tipping them off.”

Mark nods. “Oh, and Julie wanted me to tell you that Amber’s team looked into other unsolved murders involving nightstand carvings, but they came up with nothing so far. This case is all over the news, so Julie thinks if there were other cases like it, we would have heard by now. They’ll keep looking, but we removed it from the agenda since there’s nothing to report.” 

“What is this?” Mulder asks Mark. “The last item. Did someone come up with something on the runes? Or whatever the hell they are? Dear God, please tell me yes.” 

Julie opens the office door, holds onto the metal handle and leans into the office. “Welcome back,” she says, not coming all the way in. “We’ve got just under five minutes.” She looks down at Mulder and Scully’s food, then glares at Scully. “Why are you making him eat that?” 

Scully rolls her eyes and sighs. “Let’s just head to the conference room.”

* * *

Scully, Julie, Mulder, and Mark are all seated around the conference table by the time the other agents arrive. Mark hands out agendas as the others file in. 

“First things first,” Scully says, “we’ve identified another victim in Carmel.” Scully succinctly lays out the facts of the murder. “We believe that in her youth, Mary was having an affair with her employer, and that he’s the one who paid for her treatment and institutionalization; we also believe he purchased her 4.2 million dollar cottage in Carmel, where she resided upon release until she was murdered.” 

“This is the earliest murder we’ve identified,” Mulder adds, “and we think it’s his first. Obviously this case differs in a number of ways from the others: it happened six months before the second murder, whereas the other murders are all separated by an average of only twelve weeks; no gun was used; the victim lived alone; she had a limited income; and the murder occurred outside of Southern California.” 

Scully nods. “Based on what we learned looking into Mary, we now think we’ve identified something critical that may link the victims.” 

An agent named Amber speaks up. “You believe that one victim in each murder gave birth at some point — even if there isn’t a record of it.” 

“Well, we believe there _won’t_ be a record of it,” Mulder clairfies.

“So tell us what you found,” instructs Scully. “Let’s go in order of the murders.” 

“I looked into the first couple,” the first agent says. “As we all know, Valerie and Stuart were in their early sixties and had three adult children. There was nothing in Valerie’s medical record indicating a fourth pregnancy or delivery. However, I talked with Valarie’s sister and asked if she had any reason to believe Valarie may have given birth to a baby she didn’t keep. At first she said absolutely not, but then I asked if Valerie ever went MIA long enough to have hidden a pregnancy. After a bit of thinking, she remembered that her sister was caught up in some strangely dependent relationship with a psychic about twenty years ago.” She looks up from her laptop at the others. “Hold on; I swear this is going somewhere.” 

“The sister said this thing with the psychic was odd, but not particularly concerning, until the family stopped hearing from her. Valarie used to call her sister once a week, but for about seven months, she couldn’t manage to connect with her or Stuart. She even asked the police to do a wellness check at one point. She wasn’t confident, but she suspected the distance was somehow related to the psychic. Because it was so out of character.”

“Any chance you were able to find the psychic?” Julie asks. 

“I did, believe it or not. The sister remembered the psychic’s name because she had started digging into her when Valarie went MIA. I guess psychic-client privilege is null-and-void when the client dies. The psychic told me Valerie became pregnant in her early forties and was worried about the complications associated with pregnancy at that age. The psychic ‘saw’ that the baby would develop cerebral palsy when it reached age two. She said Valerie was very distressed. Now, the psychic didn’t know what Valerie did about it in the end, but _we_ know that one: she went off-the-grid for seven months, and two: there’s no record of the pregnancy or a delivery. So at this point, it’s just an inference that this one fits the pattern, but it’s a pretty safe one.” 

“Amber?” Julie prompts the next agent. 

“Mine was a lot easier to determine. I talked to the person the detectives listed as Melanie’s closest contact. She just came right out and told me Melanie and Ty found out she was pregnant despite her IUD right after they inherited her father’s superyacht —among other riches, I’m sure — eight years ago. Apparently even before her father died, they were planning a two-year yacht expedition, and they’d been planning it for _years_ ; they had already invested millions into the trip, so this pregnancy really put a wrench in their plans. They were scheduled to set sail a month after her due date. Plus, Melanie and Ty never wanted children. She was pro-life, so her friend said she decided to see the pregnancy through and then give the baby up for adoption.” 

“Any record of that?” Mulder asks. 

“No,” replies Amber. "No record of anything."

“Who had Liam and Olivia?” Scully looks around the table. “John?” 

“Yep,” says a very young looking male agent. “Mine was also easy. Olivia was 35 years Liam’s junior. As we know, they’d been living together for a while but they weren’t married. She told all her friends he had a vasectomy when they started dating because he didn’t want any more kids. Her friend Ava told me Liam apparently couldn’t ‘satisfy’ her; Olivia had a number of affairs with younger men, and she got pregnant six years ago. She covered it up by asking Liam to send her to a self-realization retreat in Thailand. Ava said Liam actually told her directly that he was happy to send Olivia away because it meant he could sleep with other girls without getting caught.” 

Amber makes a noise of disgust and John looks up at her. “Yeah this guy was a real piece of work. Ava thinks Liam was testing the water to see if she was interested — which she insisted she was not, because she was, quote, independently wealthy.” 

“Solid reason,” Julie mutters sarcastically. 

“Needless to say,” John goes on, “there was no Thailand retreat. In actuality, Olivia stayed at her friend Madison’s townhouse on the Upper East Side, which was vacant since her parents moved back to London. And yes, same thing here: no record of the brith, nothing in her medical record, and no papertrail of adoption.”

“Ok Greg,” Julie says, looking across at the last agent to speak. “I assume that means you had Avery and Elizabeth.” 

“Correct. This one was a little harder than the last two; the couple really kept to themselves. They both had terminated contact with their families after coming out as a couple, and they didn’t have any friends the original San Diego detectives would call “close.” The person with the most intel into their lives was Elizabeth’s therapist, Connie. The original detectives noted in their file that Connie revealed Elizabeth survived a violent rape by a stranger during a burglery gone wrong. This was about four years ago. They discounted the perpetrator as a murder suspect because he was apprehended and is currently in jail. Anyway, I asked Connie if there was any chance a pregnancy resulted from the rape. Connie said Elizabeth did indeed become pregnant — and she talked about the labor in sessions because as you can imagine, it was extraordinarily traumatizing given the circumstances. She gave the baby up. Connie never mentioned any of this to the detectives because she couldn't see how it was relevant.” 

“Well in most cases it probably wouldn't have been,” Mulder concedes. “I assume no records?”

“None,” Greg confirms. 

Mulder nods. “And I know from interviewing Chloe and Michael’s friend that she gave birth a little over two months ago.” He takes a deep breath. “So here’s where we are: we know that one victim in each murder was pregnant at some point. We know that the first, second, and third female victims had c-section scars, suggesting they did ultimately deliver; we have acquaintances from the fourth, fifth, and sixth who believe they carried to term. And we have no birth or adoption records for any of these.” 

Mark has gone up to the whiteboard to draw a chart listing the victims’ names, the information source, and the estimated year of the pregnancy. Everyone stares at it for a moment, thinking. 

Scully looks around the table. “And I assume none of the contacts suspected that the adoptions were anything other than normal.” Heads nod in affirmation around the table.

“So,” Amber says. “This is something of note that they all have in common, finally. But it still doesn’t give us any direction — any indication of who the murderer is.” 

“Or _murderers_ ,” Greg corrects. 

Julie sighs heavily. “Since the DNA we’ve collected all points to the same male perpetrator, we already know we’re working with one murderer.” 

“Oh, right,” Greg says sheepishly. 

“Alright,” Mulder sits up. “Speaking of the perpetrator: we need to make progress on these carvings before I can build a usable profile. Who’s going to give me something I can use?” 

Everyone is looking around the table except for Julie, who is staring directly at Mark, still standing at the white board. 

“Uh,” Mark starts, then clears his throat. “Me. It’s me,” he says, jogging back to his seat and fumbling with the file in front of him. He hands a stack of papers to Julie, who takes one and passes it down. 

Mulder gives Scully a questioning look and she shrugs, baffled. 

“Um, Okay. In college, I took a graduate seminar in Ancient and Post-Classical language. After John told me there wasn’t much luck identifying the symbols, I thought I’d take a look, because they seemed familiar to me. I used my alumni library privileges to access a text on runic alphabets that we referenced in class. The first page in your packet displays the similarities between the carvings and the closest matching runes I could find. Nothing looked convincing enough to call it a match.” 

John scans the spreadsheet. “This is pretty much what we came up with, too.” 

Mark inhales, then launches into a concise version of the story he told Julie — about remembering the rare children’s book; the sword illustration with the symbols for ‘Courage, Honor, and Respect;’ and his ultimate certainty that the symbol for Courage in the book matched one of the symbols carved into a nightstand. 

“On the fifth page of your packet, you’ll see a photo of the glossary that was at the back of the book. The glossary was an illustrated list of ‘runes’ and their meanings. As I said before, the illustrator took some obvious artistic liberties — so while the header _says_ ‘Anglo-Saxon Runes,’ that really isn’t what they are; they’re a combination of those, Elder Futhark, and the illustrator's imagination.” 

Mark flips the page. “Finally, on the last page, you’ll see a chart matching the various nightstand carvings to the ‘runes’ illustrated in the book’s glossary. They’re exact matches. Oh, and the third column in that chart tells you the meaning of carving, according to the book.” 

Everyone hurriedly turns to the last page. Jaws fall open and eyes go wide. 

“Holy shit,” Mulder mutters.

After a long silence, Mulder stands up, reaching across Scully to shake Mark’s hand for the second time in an hour. “This is exactly what I needed.” 

Mulder starts shoving papers into his bag. “I can finally get working on this profile,” he says, then leaning down to Scully: “Give him a raise.”

Mulder makes it out the door before he swings back in, hanging from the door jam. “Hey Scully,” he calls her urgently.

“I know,” she waves him off, already dialing. “I’m calling Portia now.” 

  
  



	25. Chapter 25

Within a few short hours, Mulder is handing in his profile to his former partner. “A little light reading.” He sinks into a chair at her desk and passes her a coffee he picked up at the Starbucks down the street. 

“Can’t wait,” she says, then takes a quick sip. 

“Portia?” Mulder asks. 

“You’re going to like this. I emailed her the picture of the book cover. She remembers it perfectly because she said Mary made a huge deal over having won it at an auction; apparently they were outbid the last time the book came up. Mary told her James really wanted it; see his grandmother gave one to him as a child, and it was his favorite book, but he lost it in a move.” 

“And Mark said there were only thirty copies made,” Mulder recalls. 

“Right. Well, that cabinet you were looking at? In the library at Windy Cove? James’s entire collection of children’s books is in there. But when Portia went to pull it, she couldn’t find it.” 

“Huh.” Mulder crosses his legs. 

“She said it could only be in one other location, and that’s in his rare book collection at her Pacific Heights home. She called an employee there to look for it. Nothing. Then she thought there was a very small chance it was donated to the archives at Stanford, but she said as far as she knew, the childrens’ books he collected were never an option for donation.” 

Mark knocks twice on the open door and pops his head in. “Just got off the phone with the library at Stanford. I already checked their inventory when I first thought of the book, but this time I spoke directly with the head archivist and she confirmed there was never a donation from Stafford with that title.” 

Scully doesn’t look surprised. “And I called Sancehz. They did not find a copy of that book in Mary’s cottage,” Scully finishes. “So we have no idea where it is.”

Mulder thinks on this for a moment then waves two copies of the profile at Mark. “This is for you guys. There’s one for you and one for Julie.” 

Just then, Julie enters the office. She cranes her head to see inside Scully’s office. “You’re done already?” Julie asks Mulder, shocked. 

“It’s pretty bare, but it’s something.”

Julie comes over to stand beside Mark, peering over his arm at the profile.

“Share with the class, Mark,” Mulder says, and Mark startles.

“Oh sorry,” he smiles sheepishly at Julie. “Here’s your copy.” 

" _My_ copy.” Julie repeats, eyeing Scully with amusement. 

Mulder looks at his watch. “It’s 9:30. Can we please get something to eat?” he asks Scully. “Real food. Not that garbage we had for lunch.” 

“Fine.” She closes her laptop. “My treat.” 

Mark’s eyes flick to Julie’s and Scully catches it. “All of us,” she says to the room. “It’s the least I can do.” 

* * *

“I’ve been here three times this week,” Mark cringes, looking around as they’re seated at a four person table near the bar. 

“It’s good,” Julie protests, sliding in next to him. “What’s the problem?”

“I don’t know. It’s just kind of embarrassing,” Mark whispers. 

Julie rolls her eyes. “We can order for the group if that’s easiest. The menu is stupid long.” 

Scully looks relieved as she closes her menu and sets it down. “That’s fine with me.” She reaches her left hand across to her right shoulder and starts kneading a knot.

“Me too,” Mulder agrees, stifling a yawn. He stacks his menu on top of Scully’s, then throws his arm along the back of the bench and around her shoulder, nudging Scully’s hand aside. He takes over massaging the spot she was tackling. Neither seems to realize the way it looks.

Mark tenses but Julie looks at them sympathetically. “You two must be exhausted.”

“Well not more than you,” Scully says, lifting an eyebrow. “We were enjoying a beachside view last night while you were undercover.” Mulder averts his eyes, thinking of last night — her lips against his, her hand wrapped around him. 

The waiter approaches and Julie places their order. “And we’ll take a pitcher of sangria,” Scully adds. “We earned it.”

Mulder’s fingers have moved to pressing along her neck and she leans into his touch. “Tell us about the profile,” Scully prompts Mulder. “Then we don’t have to read it.” He flicks the side of her neck in retaliation.

“There’s not much in it, to be honest. We’re looking for a white male, between 30 and 45, clean-cut and likely upper class. College to graduate degree. Either lives off a trust or works a professional 9 to 5. Lives alone, somewhere within the perimeters of the murder — not including the one in Carmel, of course. A loner: very few close friends, and probably distant or estranged from his family. No prior arrests, I think, but potentially exhibits anger management issues. Likely he’s sought therapy in the past, maybe for issues associated with his childhood.” 

The waiter arrives with their pitcher and they pause their conversation while he pours their glasses. 

“Cheers,” Mark salutes.

“To progress,” says Julie.

The drink in silence for a beat. 

“Motive?” Julie asks hopefully.

“Like I’ve said from the beginning, the key to identifying his motive is in those carvings. There’s a ritualistic aspect to it. I don’t mean satanic or some bullshit like that; I mean he’s performing his own kind of ritual by carving these symbols at the scene of the murder. He’s fulfilling some kind of need. Now that we know what the symbols mean — that they all represent virtues — I think it’s safe to say the murders are motivated by some kind of principle; he thinks he’s making a statement. He probably thinks he’s doing good.” 

“Scully and I talked about this earlier: we think the real answers are with Mary,” Mulder goes on. “The perpetrator has a personal connection with her that I don’t think he had with the others. He didn't plan on killing Mary, whereas for all the later murders, he came prepared. Whatever happened between him and Mary, it set him off. And my bet is that it’s related at least in part to the motive for all the subsequent murders.” 

The waiter arrives with the first set of dishes and lays them out across the table. Mark thanks him and Mulder reaches across for the pitcher just as Scully leans past him to grab a dish from the opposite end of the table. The edge of Mulder’s watch collides with Scully’s forehead.

“Owww,” she half laughs, half whines in a tone Mark has never heard from his boss. “Mulder!” Her hand covers a red mark blooming above her brow.

“Oh nooo,” Mulder chuckles as if he’s comforting a child who fell on a playground. “I’m sorry.” He brings her forehead to his lips, kissing the red spot.

Scully stiffens. Mark elbows Julie under the table and they look at each other with trepidation. To her relief, Scully’s phone goes off.

She pulls it out and checks the screen. “It’s Chris,” she says, and Mulder pulls back abruptly, as if burnt. “Do you mind?” she asks the table in a perfunctory fashion. 

“Hi,” she says into the phone, turning away. The others continue passing platters and scooping food onto plates. “Really?” Scully says, her brows furrowing. She’s silent for a moment, listening. “That’s odd. I’m sure it’s nothing. Yeah, no, of course, I won’t go in alone. I’m not worried about it. I’ll call you once I’m in safe.” She nods into the phone. “Love you too,” she says quietly, and Mark sees Mulder’s jaw clench. 

“What’s up?” Julie asks as soon as Scully hangs up. 

“Our home security company called Chris. They said the alarm went off. The first call is always a courtesy call to check if it’s a false alarm, but Chris was in a dinner meeting so he missed it. Apparently if they don’t hear back in fifteen minutes, they send the police.” 

“What happened?” Mulder looks concerned. 

“Oh, nothing. When Chris finally saw the missed call, it was two hours later. The security company already let the police in remotely, and they’d searched the house. They found a window on the ground floor ajar, but nothing else looked disturbed.” She shrugs dismissively. “He just doesn’t want me to go into the house alone.” 

She’s filling her plate with food. “I’m not worried about it. The neighbors had something similar happen a month ago; turns out it was just some high school kids looking for a luxury crash pad where they could smoke pot and drink.”

“I’ll go with you,” Mulder says to her. “We’ll clear the house before I go.” 

Scully nods. “So,” she looks up at the others as she brings a piece of broccoli to her mouth, “Let’s talk about those runes.”

Julie fishes in her work bag and pulls out Mark’s handout from the meeting. She flips to the last page. “So for Mary, we have Love; for Valerie and Stewart, we have Wisdom; for Melanie and Ty, we have Generosity; for Olivia and Liam, we have Responsibility; for Elizabeth and Avery, we have Courage; and for Chloe and Michael, we have Modesty.” 

Julie looks at Mark. “How is it that by identifying these symbols, you somehow made this case even more confusing?” 

Mark sighs. “Listening to those backstories this afternoon, though… Frankly I can’t see any legitimate excuse for using an agency like this. But it feels like, with the exception of maybe Elizabeth and Avery — and maybe Mary, who probably didn’t have a say in the whole thing — these people had despicably shallow reasons for what they did. And what’s weird is these symbols all translate to virtues. I hate to say it but I just don’t see these victims as particularly… virtuous..” 

Julie sets her chopsticks down. “I know. I mean, take the first couple: Valerie and Stewart. Wisdom? A fucking _psychic_ told her the baby would have CP, so she thought she’d sell it off? Are you kidding me? That’s the literal opposite of wisdom.” 

“Let me see that.” Julie hands the chart to Scully, who is chewing on her chopsticks. “Maybe the symbols aren’t representative of the victims; maybe they represent what the victims lack.” She turns to the full-page picture of the glossary. “None of the symbols on this thing represent vices, anyway.”

Mulder nods slowly. “So it’s his way of calling them out?” He leans closer to Scully and looks over the chart. “Melanie and Ty were selfish rather than generous for prioritizing their yacht expedition; Olivia tried to hide her affair, so that’s definitely the opposite of taking responsibility; Elizabeth lacked the courage to let the world find out about her rape, or to keep the product of it—” he meets Scully’s eyes, “Just to be clear, _I’m_ not saying that, _this_ guy is — and Chloe and Michael… Modesty? Maybe he’s saying they were too proud? That all they cared about was keeping the pregnancy from their friends and family?”

“Well the cell phone records certainly jive with that,” Julie said. “Pretty much as soon as she gave birth, their social calendars were full.They must have made a million calls and a thousand of social arrangements. Did I tell you they even threw a party at Chateau Marmont the _week after_ she delivered? As if to celebrate that the whole thing was over?”

Mark raises his hand.

Mulder cocks his head. “What is that? Do you have a question?” 

Julie laughs. 

“Alright buddy, you don’t have to raise your hand. What’s the question.”

“Well it’s a bit off topic. Regardless of why he’s doing this, how do you think he’s even finding these people? If he’s selecting his victims because they contracted the agency, then there _has_ to be some kind of internal record of clients... that they _promised_ us doesn’t exist. Except for Chloe and Michael, these births and adoptions happened years ago. Those records should have been destroyed by now.” 

“He works there,” Scully whispers. 

Mulder sits up. “You’re right. That’s it.” 

“Well, maybe,” she replies, noncommittally. She downs her glass and Mark pours her another. 

Julie is mindlessly poking at a piece of tofu on her plate. “Let’s say he does work for them. Where do we go from here?” she wonders. “I doubt there’s something as ordinary as a staff directory. And even if there was, how would we get our hands on it?” 

“That Todd guy told us we’d only deal with one staff member other than the doctor and nurses, and that was him,” Mark recalls. “I think he thought it would make us feel more confident about our privacy. But we can infer from that that most employees don’t ever interact with clients. Even if Julie and I moved forward with the ruse, I doubt we’d get close to anything like an employee record.” 

“It doesn’t even sound like you’d get past Todd,” Mulder agrees.

They eat in silence, thinking. 

“We didn’t discuss Mary.” Scully hands the document back to Julie. “Her symbol was Love. If she’s the key, like Mulder thinks, then that’s the most important one.” 

“The picture that was found on her coffee table,” Julie ventures slowly. Nothing else was out on the table, correct? And if the attack wasn’t planned, and Mary knew her murderer... Maybe she let him in. Maybe they were looking at that photo together.” Julie’s eyes narrow. “Something about that photo got him angry enough to kill her. But what?”

  
  



	26. Chapter 26

As they head out the restaurant door, Julie stops Scully. “I’m gonna come clear the house with you two.” 

“What? No, it’s fine. We can handle it.” 

Julie glances at Mark, then back at Scully. “I’m coming.” 

Scully sighs. “But Mark drove you here.” 

“It’s no problem,” Mark says. “I’ll take her there and then drop her back at the office. It’ll be quick.” 

Mulder looks at Scully. “Why not? It will go faster with her.” He addresses Mark. “I’ll follow Scully and you follow me.” 

When Julie enters Mark’s car and slams the door, she pulls on her seatbelt and looks over at Mark. “Did you see the way he was looking at her at dinner? I was afraid if we didn’t go with them, he’d stay the night.” 

”Obviously I picked up on that if _you_ did,” he jokes, putting the car in reverse. 

Julie’s eyes him suspiciously. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Oh please. You’re good at almost everything Julie, but you’re terrible with those kinds of cues. At what point did you figure me out?”

Julie looks out the window. “Well _I_ thought you were gay until maybe two minutes after you kissed me,” she answers frankly.

“Okay wow, that explains a lot.” His mind flashes to the rainbow tie-dye tank top she gifted him and he snorts.

Ten minutes later the three cars pull into Scully’s driveway. She jogs up the stairs and enters the code. 

“Hey! Hold on,” Mulder whispers loudly, coming up behind her and drawing his weapon. 

“Is that necessary?” 

Julie comes up next, her gun already in hand. “Better safe than sorry,” she says to Scully. “I told Mark to wait in the car.” 

“Did you at least leave the window open a crack?” Mulder jokes.

Scully pushes her coat aside and reluctantly draws her gun. Mulder nods, then heads in first. The sensor lights come on on the first level. The open concept helps with clearing the first floor quickly. 

Mulder makes his way to the kitchen window. “Forced entry here,” he murmurs. He swings it open and looks out. “You could climb in from the side of the patio.” He closes and latches the window and then turns to look at Scully. 

“It’s really none of my business, but I wish you didn’t live someplace where anyone off the street could look right in,” he says with an edge as he passes her on his way up the stairs. 

Julie and Scully climb up after him. Scully clears Chris’s office, then their workout room, and Julie clears the guest bedroom and bath while Mulder makes his way to the master on the third floor.

He checks the master closet, then the bathroom. He takes in the back stone tub, freestanding in front of a large, beach-facing window. He holsters his gun and walks back into the bedroom. Unwillingly he stops and stares at the bed, its satin sheets and crushed velvet duvet. He thinks of her and Chris in this bed sleeping peacefully, his arms around her. 

Scully comes into the room as she reholsters. She looks at him and follows his eyes to her bed, then dips her chin. Julie enters the room behind Scully and looks between the two of them; she’s not sure what is happening, but she simultaneously wants to leave them be and knows she shouldn’t. 

Mulder walks closer to the bed and bends over the nightstand. 

“What are you doing?” Scully asks him.

“What is this?” He mutters, looking closer. “ _Fuck_ ,” he exclaims suddenly, stumbling back. 

“Mulder?” Scully is rushing toward him and he catches her arm. “Don’t touch it.” 

She looks up at him, startled. Cold dread spreads through her. Julie passes them and leans in. “Jesus, Dana.”

Scully is shaking her head, going white. “No. There’s no way that was there when I left. That’s my side; I would have noticed.” She’s starting to tremble and Mulder wraps an arm around her tightly. 

Julie turns away and pulls her phone out of her pocket. “Mark. We’re fine but I need you to come in here, to the third floor. Bring my bag with you.” 

“What the fuck is going on?” Scully asks, moving away from Mulder and trying to gather herself. 

“I don’t know. But you won’t stay here tonight. Don’t worry.”

They hear Mark bounding up the stairs. “What’s going on?” He’s pulled off his tie and rolled up his sleeves in the car, and his hair is a mess. Julie thinks he looks adorable, but the thought leaves her as soon as it arrives. 

“There’s a symbol carved into the nightstand here,” Julie says to him soberly.

“What?” He asks breathlessly. He sprints over to the bedside but Julie stops him. “Don’t get too close.” 

Mark looks at the carving and blanches. “Shit.” He pries open Julie’s bag and pulls out the runes chart. His eyes rapidly scan the page, then he looks up at Scully. “Justice.” 

Mulder runs his hands through his hair. “He wants us to stop. He thinks putting him away would be a miscarraige of justice. Julie?” he calls her from her stupor. “Call forensics.” 

Scully is staring at the carving on her nightstand. “Hey,” Mulder says to her softly. “You need to look around — see if anything else is out of place or missing.” She nods without looking away. 

“I’ve got gloves in there,” Julie indicates her bag. Mark digs out a ziploc and hands pairs to Scully, Mulder, and Julie. “Uh,” he says uncomfortably. “I’ll wait outside for forensics.” 

Scully walks the room slowly and Mulder follows close behind. She checks the closet, opens her drawers; they are so tidy that he doubts anything could be missing and she wouldn’t know it. She looks up on the shelves, in her unlocked jewelry drawer that contains a number of luxury mens watches, then shakes her head at Mulder. 

She heads into the bathroom and Mulder crosses to the nightstand on Chris’s side of the bed. He examines it closely for any sign of the perpetrator but sees nothing. He pulls open the single drawer and finds it empty, save for a half-used bottle of lubricant. He realizes Julie is standing beside him and he reddens, closing the drawer swiftly. 

Julie studies him openly. “You should know,” she says so quietly he can barely make out the words. “He’s going to propose. Soon.” She searches his eyes but he looks away from her, swallowing hard. He nods but says nothing. 

Scully leaves the bathroom and shakes her head again. “I don’t see anything. Nothing is out of place.” 

Julie readjusts her gloves. “Come on. Let’s check the other floors.” 

Once they’ve established that nothing is missing or noticaly tampered with, Mulder walks Scully out of the house with his hand at her lower back. A forensics van is already in the driveway unpacking. 

“Oh my God,” Scully says suddenly. “I haven’t told Chris.” She checks her watch. “It’s almost three in the morning there…” she hesitates. 

“You should call him,” Mulder encourages. “He’d want to know.”

Scully brings the phone to her ear and wanders off a few yards to make the call. Mulder looks after her and Mark and Julie come up alongside him. 

Julie chews on her lower lip. “She can stay with me.”

Mark looks at her skeptically. “You live across town. In a studio.” 

“Well she can’t stay here and I don’t know if she’ll be safe at a hotel.” 

“She’ll stay with me,” Mulder says firmly, and Julie’s head shoots up. She stares at him pointedly. “She’ll stay in a connecting room,” he clarifies. “Someone armed should be with her; _I_ want to be with her.” He sighs. “We’ll ask her what she wants to do.”

Scully walks back over to their huddle without her usual haste. She seems in a daze, and Mulder’s heart breaks a little at the vulnerability she’s wearing. “Do you want to stay at my hotel tonight? We can get a connecting room.” 

“Yeah,” she whispers horsley, then clears her throat. “That would be good.” 

Mark takes out his phone. “I’ll call ahead to make sure they have something ready.” 

“Wait,” Mulder stops him with an arm to his shoulder. “You two shouldn’t be alone either, or at your current residences. Not after last night. If it is someone internal to the agency like we think it is, they might be able to track you down.” 

Mark looks alarmed; he clearly hadn’t considered this. “I don’t own a weapon,” he manages. “But my parents have a house up in Malibu on PCH. We can use that.” 

Julie shakes her head. “I don’t want to be that far.” 

“They have a place in Beverly Hills as well.” Julie looks over at him, vexed. “It’s some historic mansion so they got it for the tax break. Actually, that’s a good one because I don’t think their names are even on it; I think on paper, it's owned by a foundation.” 

“That’s the one,” Mulder says. He opts to continue the ruse that he has no idea about their romantic status. “Are you two comfortable staying together? Julie will be armed but if you aren’t together, I can’t let you stay alone, Mark.” 

Mark allows Julie to answer first. “It’ll be fine. I assume there are multiple bedrooms in an historic mansion?” she asks sarcastically. 

Mark doesn’t respond, already stepping away to call the hotel. “What room number are you?” He calls back to Mulder.

“1508.”

Mulder nudges Scully. “How did Chris take it?” 

“He’s furious,” she says quietly. Mulder nods slowly, not knowing what to say. “He’s cutting his trip short and flying back tomorrow morning.” She covers her face with her hands. “This is a nightmare.” 

Mulder wears a pained expression on his face. He puts his arm around her and she leans her cheek against his chest. Julie looks away. 

Mark jogs back to the group. “It’s perfect. The connecting room to yours is already vacant. I put the reservation under your name. Your first name is really Fox?” he asks.

“Unfortunately. Come on,” he coaxes Scully. “Get your overnight bag but leave your car. I’ll drive us to the hotel.” 

  
  



	27. Chapter 27

A cold front moved in during the early evening, and the massive 19th century structure is caverness and chilly. Julie is brushing her teeth in the largest bathroom she’s ever seen. She’s telling herself there’s no reason to think they’re in danger; unless the perpetrator wants to scale a 20-foot iron fence, he’s not getting near this house. Still, she can’t help but feel anxious. If she just had herself to worry about, that would be one thing.

Mark appears in the mirror while she’s rinsing her mouth. He shuffles on his feet awkwardly in the doorway, dressed in plaid pajama pants and a T-shirt. They were able to stop at his place on the way here but not hers, so she’s wearing his oversized Stanford T-shirt and a pair of his gym shorts folded a few times at the waist.

“Thanks for the toothbrush.” She hands him his toothpaste. 

“I put fresh linens on the bed for you — in the room next to the one I’m in.”

“The one at the end of the hall?” she frowns. 

“Those are the closest bedrooms in the house.” 

“That’s too far apart,” she says, pulling a bottle of face wash from her gym cosmetics case. “I’ll stay with you.” 

“Um, okay. But in that case, we should stay in your room. You have the big fireplace.” He avoids her eyes and heads back down the hall. 

Earlier that night at his condo, he’d video-chatted with his parents behind his bedroom door, asking them if he and Julie could stay at the house in Beverly Hills. Julie sat on the sofa and looked around his small living space. It was admittedly nicer than hers, but then he had made significantly more than her at his previous job. Nothing about the way he lived called attention to the extreme wealth he’d been born into. Nothing about the way he behaved did either, she conceded, and it made her second-guess her prejudice. 

“Will you be safe? Should we send security out to the house?” she overheard his mom say. 

“We’ll be fine, mom. Don’t worry.”

“Don’t worry? Mark, you can’t be serious.” 

“We’re acting on an over-abundance of caution; we’re not in any real danger. And Julie will be with me.” 

His dad spoke up then. “Julie? Is this the one?”

“What _one_?” his mom gasped, the worry having evaporated from her voice. Now, she sounded positively delighted. 

His dad chucked and Julie could hear Mark turning down the volume. “I knew that would distract her. She’s an agent, honey. Very talented. I don’t think we have anything to be concerned about if she’s there.” 

“An agent?” his mom sounded impressed. “That’s incredible. Oh, I wish I could have had it in me to do something so courageous,” she says wistfully.

“Before you called, your mother was screaming her head off at a spider, and it was the _tiniest_ thing you’ve ever seen,” his dad teased. "She killed it though; she's plenty courageous if you ask me."

His mom laughed whole-heartedly, then sighed. “Well. She must be smart?” his mom asked.  
  
Julie noted that his mom did _not_ ask if Julie was pretty, and it made her smile to herself.

“Of course she’s smart. Do you think our son...” she heard his dad begin to reply, but the volume trailed off. She figured Mark had moved farther from the door. 

Just then, she spotted a newspaper clipping lying on his desk. Curious, she got up and walked over, picking it up off of a well-worn copy of _Dune_ and the latest issue of _The Economist_. It was a picture from an article that ran on Tuesday, covering the serial murders. The image showed a scene from their last case, after Williams was arrested and Dana had been airlifted to the hospital. Julie, in her too-large FBI windbreaker, was caught in profile, her arms raised as she gave orders to the forensic team. 

The door to the bedroom opened and she replaced the clipping hastily. 

“Sorry about the wait,” Mark said. “They said it’s no problem. They’ll let us in remotely when we arrive.” His phone buzzed with a text and he glanced down at it. “And uh, my mom says to tell you she’s sorry the renovation isn’t further along.” A faint blush crept up his neck.

She smiled. “I think I’ll manage.”

When Julie’s done getting ready for bed, she walks the long hallway to their bedroom for the night, admiring the ornate patterns carved into the crown molding. Brass open-work chandeliers hang every few yards, and she thinks she recognizes them from Restoration Hardware; if she’s right, a single one of these is twice her monthly rent. She remembers her freshman roommate’s trips to Vail and Fiji, her shopping trips to Paris — how many classes she missed but miraculously passed. Julie hesitates at the door, touching the polished gold handle. Her melancholy surprises her; she wonders if it would bother her at all that she didn’t belong here, if it weren’t for the fact that Mark did.

When she enters the room, Mark is kneeling in front of the fireplace and has just managed to ignite a flame. The fire is crackling to life, casting dancing shadows and light over the redwood walls. He glances up at her. “The heat is still being repaired,” he apologizes.

He somewhat stiffly climbs under the covers and she slips in on the other side of the bed, placing her gun under her pillow. He lays on his back looking up at the gold coffered ceiling. They listen to the sounds of the fire intermingle with the wind in the trees outside their window. Eventually, he turns to face her. She’s already laying on her side, watching him. 

She smiles. “You were really something today. You’re making me look bad.” 

He smiles back but shakes his head dismissively. They say nothing for a long while. 

“Are we ever going to talk about it?” he asks quietly.

She doesn’t appear as aggravated by the question as he feared. “Do we have to? Can’t we just… see what happens?” 

His forehead creases. “Is it because of the money? Would your answer be different— if…?” 

“I _think_ so,” she says, feigning consideration. “I’d probably be even less inclined to give you a shot if you weren’t filthy rich.”

Mark exhales a short laugh and Julie smiles sleepily. He reaches out and brushes a lock of hair from her eyes. She catches his hand and holds it to her cool cheek. She scoots closer to him and lays her head on his chest. His heart flutters. He kisses the top of her head lightly but doesn’t make a move to take it any further.

She yawns. “Too tired to try anything this time?” 

The log in the fireplace pops and shifts, and she feels him shake his head. “This is exactly what I want right now.” He pauses. “But if you want to wake me with a blow job in the morning, I promise I won’t stop you.” 

Julie breaks out in laughter and sits up on an elbow, pushing his head playfully. “That will _never_ happen. I would _never_ , so get it out of your head.” He’s grinning, feeling bold; he pulls her in and kisses her as she laughs against his lips, then turns serious, and finally, finally kisses him back. 

She pulls away, eyes still laughing, and lays back down. There’s more comfortable silence before Julie speaks. 

“I told Mulder. About Chris. That he’s going to propose.” 

“What? When? What did he say?” 

“At the house, when Dana was in another room. And he didn’t say anything. He just nodded.” She sounds a bit sad.

“Wow.” Mark exhales. “Do you think that’s what she wants? To marry Chris?” 

“Honestly?” she sighs, “I know according to you I’m clueless with this kind of thing, but I just… don’t think so.” She readjusts her head on his chest, burrowing closer. “I think she’s still in love with Mulder.” 

“Hmm,” Mark hums, the vibration of the sound tickling her hair. “Well. If that’s true, I hope she admits it to herself in time. It’s obvious to anyone with eyes that Mulder knows what he wants, but Dana… she's so guarded.” He feels an unexpected twinge of pity for Mulder — and maybe a bit of solidarity. “It can’t be easy being in love with someone so… resistant to emotions.” 

“Like me?” she jokes, glancing up at him. 

“Yeah. Exactly.” He tucks the top of her head under his chin and yawns. “Promise you won’t leave me hanging that long.”

Her chest swells suddenly as she realizes he may have just hinted he loves her. She laces her fingers with his, pulls their intertwined hands up to her chest. She brings her lips to his knuckles, lingering — and he thinks, _That’s a good enough answer for now._

In the morning, he even wakes to find her fully submerged under the covers, laughing quietly as her fingers untie the drawstring on his pants.

  
  



	28. Chapter 28

They enter their rooms separately, but the first thing Scully does when she gets in is open her connecting door. By the time Mulder opens his, she’s already started running the shower. He stands in the doorway mindlessly toying with the knob as he debates how much privacy she needs — should he leave it wide open? Ajar? A foot or a few inches? Or maybe just closed and not locked? He settles on ajar, a few inches.

He hangs his suit jacket in the closet and tugs off his tie, then extracts his laptop and the binder of evidence, carrying them to the bed. He pulls out the photos of the carvings. He’s not sure what he’s looking for, but he feels the need to do _something_.

Mulder rubs his tired eyes and puts on his glasses. With a crime scene photo in one hand and Mark’s hand-out in the other, he looks between the book illustration and the carving. He notes how intricate the pattern is, and how practiced a hand the perpetrator must have had. Cutting these symbols into a surface is something he’s done before, likely many times — and unless he brought the book along with him, he has all these elaborate flourishes memorized. 

He sets everything down with a sigh and listens to the sound of the shower running in Scully’s room. He doesn’t know how long it will take them to find this guy, but he does know that Chris will be back in town tomorrow, and that from then on, in all likelihood, he will be staying with her. He wonders if Scully suspects Chris is about to propose. He glances over at the sliver of open door, thinking of closed-door metaphors and how tomorrow night, that connecting door will be shut — and possibly never opened again. 

He imagines Chris in his private jet over middle america somewhere on his way back to LA, dogearring a catalog from Harry Winston. He imagines them sleeping peacefully in their luxurious bed, which in turn makes him think of her nightstand — of the fear that overpowered him at the prospect of some deranged murderer creeping into her glass house and stealing her away with a gun and a silencer. He feels physically ill and tightly squeezes his eyes shut, desperate to extinguish these images. 

Made weak by all of it, he heaves himself to his feet when he hears the water turn off. He lets himself into her room and sits on the mattress facing the bathroom door, staring down at his hands in his lap. His hands look old — all the thin lines more prominent than he’d realized. He wonders idly when that happened. 

When she emerges from the bathroom, bringing with her a cloud of warm steam, he looks up and she smiles sadly. His heart clenches, then unfolds so swiftly that he loses his composure. He didn’t see it coming, but tears now sting his eyes. 

“Can I stay here with you? Just tonight,” he asks quietly, like a small child woken from a nightmare. He looks back down, blinking away tears. 

She doesn’t say anything, which he knows means that he has permission. She packs her toiletry bag back into her luggage while he unholsters his gun and rests it under his pillow. He removes his shoes and socks, strips off his dress shirt and pants, and leaves them in a pile on the floor. He slides himself under the stiff sheets. She gets the overhead light as he switches off his bedside lamp. After concealing her own weapon, she dims her lamp, but leaves it on. 

He lays on his side and watches her settle underneath the blankets. She lays her cheek on the pillow and looks back at him. There’s maybe a foot of space between them, but it feels like miles.

“You never told me — this morning,” he whispers after a while. “Do _you_ ever wish things were different?” 

She nods slowly, bites her lower lip, but doesn’t speak. Eventually, she turns away from him and scoots back until she’s nestled against him. The silk of her night slip is so cool to the touch that his nipples harden. He puts his arms around her, pulls her in close and presses a kiss to her damp hair. 

He breathes her in and holds onto her fiercely — but for maybe the first time ever, it’s him who falls asleep before her.

* * *

Even when they were together, it was a rarity to wake and find her still by his side. His arms encircle her, her head resting on his left arm and his right arm over hers, pulling the half-moon of her body tight against his.

Her breathing is even and deep as she sleeps. He leans in close to her ear. “I love you,” he tells her quietly, feeling like it’s his last chance — and he concedes that maybe it is. He dares to hope the words find their way into her dreams — that they’ll live there with her, emerging every now-and-again in her subciscousness for years to come.

A phone buzzes, and he looks around, locating her phone on his bedside table. He picks it up and sees a flurry of texts from Chris. Irrationally but intensely, his anger flares — not directed at Chris, but at the entire, unrelentingly miserable universe. 

_Give me this one fucking morning_. He should hesitate before he does it — should have second thoughts — but he doesn’t: he powers off her phone and replaces it on the nightstand.

He turns back and buries his face in her hair, takes in the grounding scent of her. She stirs against him and he’s swallowed whole by an all-consuming need to be so much closer to her — to hide himself inside of her forever, where no one will ever find him. He pulls her to him, presses his lips to her pulse.

“Mulder,” she murmurs, reaching back to grip him closer by his waist. His morning erection prods the pliable clay of her ass, and he slides a hand up the white silk slip she apparently nowadays calls pajamas. He groans against her shoulder when he feels she isn’t wearing any underwear. He grazes the swell of her ass and he thinks of the many nights these past two years when he’d wish he’d spent more time on this particular part of her. All those fucking pencil skirts — how did he resist? She pushes herself back into his hand and he squeezes hard. _Fuck it_.

He roughly tugs her slip up over her hips, then tugs his cock out of the front of his boxers. He parts her cheeks and nestles himself between them. “Scully,” he moans against the shell of her ear, just to hear himself say her name. He uses his hips to pin her face-down on the mattress and he straddles her; with his arm released from under her head, he grabs fistfulls of her cheeks in both hands, pushing them together around his straining cock for added friction. He slides himself up and down between them, fucking her ass cheeks, hungry to know all the ways to have her that he never did. She whimpers and he feels her growing wet, feels her dampening the fabric of his boxers.

“Mulder,” she pants, unsure if she’s really awake. “You said— you said you didn’t want—” she struggles to remind him.

 _But that was before_ , he thinks. Before he knew another man was approaching at 600 miles per hour, studying diamond clarity charts and composing proclamations to her that would make this the last time he’d ever be this close to her again. Before he understood what it felt like to _know_ — not just assume — that he’d never get a second chance.

He feels his sanity slipping. In his mind, he hears her speaking vows to someone else — sees her cradling someone else’s newborn in her arms. He yanks the hem of her slip up so he can see all of her beautiful, milky ass — so he can memorize it. He stumbles off the mattress and stands, pulling her hips down to the foot of the bed. He falls to his knees and buries his face between her legs, pushing her thighs apart, his tongue lapping desperately after her weeping cunt. It’s like he’s been starved, and only just realized it; his mouth waters uncontrollably, saliva pooling in a spring under his tongue. Frenzied, he licks at her with abandon, like she’s rapidly melting ice cream. 

“ _Mulder_ ,” she breathes out. Her fingers tangle tightly in the sheets and she turns her head, strains to watch him over her shoulder. “Don’t stop,” she begs freely, wantonly.

He rises and peels his boxers off, taking in the sight of her pale, slim body belly-down; the sound of her chest heaving with labored breaths; the shock of disheveled red hair against white sheets; the tops of her thighs slick, shining and ready. He climbs back on to the mattress and kneels over her, his knees spread on either side of her own. The wet head of his cock taps her lower back. A hand glides lightly up her spine to the chip hidden in her neck. He leans down, kisses the scar with an open mouth while entering her with two fingers. She gasps. Gently, he pulls her head back by her hair, just wanting to see her face — see her lips parted and her eyes defenseless with lust. “Look at me,” he beseeches, and she obliges.

Eventually, he releases her hair and winds his hand down between her legs to pinch her clit. 

“Oh _god_ ,” she moans loudly, teeth bared against her pillow.

“Tell me what you want,” he murmurs, kissing her shoulder softly. 

“I want you inside,” she implores, her plea half-swallowed by bedding. “I need— I need to feel you come inside me.” He growls low, bites down on her shoulder blade while furiously circling her clit. “Just— just— please, Mulder, _please_ ,” she sobs, incoherent, hands scrabbling as he thrusts his fingers in and out of her. 

“Why?” he asks, scratching along her neck with his unkempt stubble. “Tell me why you need it.” He adds a third finger inside her.

She clenches, inhales sharply and her head lifts. “ _I love you_ ,” she confesses after a strangled cry. “Because I still love you.”

His heart tumbles from his chest and he wrenches his fingers from inside her, grips her hips tightly and can't possibly bring himself under control before he drives his cock deep, deep inside her. She nearly screams, a delicious pain erupting through her as she rises on her knees, grabs onto the bars of the headboard for purchase.

“ _Fuck_ , Scully, fuck, you feel so good—” he seeths. “I didn’t remember.” He’s thrusting into her with abandon, and she’s tight and slick and warm and she _still loves him._

He needs to see her face. He can’t do it this way, not if this is how it ends. He pulls out and she gasps. “Turn over, baby. I need to see you.”

She flips onto her back with his help and he intertwines their fingers, bringing their hands above her head, their eyes locked. She squeezes his hands hard as he re-enters her urgently, like she’s his only lifeforce — like he’ll suffocate and die if he’s outside of her a second longer.

He leans his forehead against hers, crushes his chest to her silk-clad breasts and tries to will self-control. He’s too worked up; he looks into her eyes for the steadiness she always affords him, and he slows, praying he can make it last. 

“I love you,” he whispers against her lips, his voice thick with emotion, moving inside her with excruciating care. “I know you shouldn’t choose me, but I still love you.” 

His sedate pace frustrates her — for a reason she doesn’t understand, it almost makes her angry. She wrestles herself on top to take over. She rises above him and he lifts the hem of her slip, holds it up by pressing it into the sides of her waist with his fingers. His head lifts to watch as his glossy cock disappears in and out of her. She writhes above him, eyes tightly shut, and he thrusts up into her. The straps of her slip have slid down to her elbows exposing both her breasts; he’s hypnotized momentarily by the sway of them in time with their movements. “Mulder,” she calls to him, and he shakes off his stupor, generously wets his thumb in his mouth and gets to work on her clit. 

Her brow furrows in earnest concentration. “I’m gonna come,” she breathes, and he hastily pushes himself up on his forearms, sits up fully against the headboard. 

“Yeah,” he encourages breathlessly. He needs to witness this in full — to capture it so he can play it back on the lonely nights that will make up the rest of his desolate, hollow, pitiful life. 

Her head falls forward against his. “But I want— I need you to—”

A knock sounds from the hall. 

They freeze instantly, their heads snapping toward the door. After a painfully long moment, the knock comes again and she scrambles off of him, pulling the straps of her slip back up. 

She pushes her hair back, her face white. “Is that my door or yours?” she whispers, breathing quickly. Mulder is on his feet, snatching his boxers from the ground and pulling them on as he listens. 

She spots her phone on his nightstand and grabs it. He tenses, afraid she’ll ascertain it was him who turned it off. He sees puzzlement flit over her face for a split second, but it doesn’t linger as she powers it on. 

Mulder begins creeping toward the door to check the peephole, but both his feet and her heart stop when her phone begins buzzing with a phone call. It’s Chris. He must be the one knocking. 

She braces herself against the wall with one hand and answers with the other. She’s quaking with residual lust and mounting guilt. She takes a steadying breath. 

“Chris?” 

“Dana, thank God. You haven’t been answering.” 

“Yeah, um, sorry, I was asleep. My— my phone was off.”

“You _need_ to keep it on, honey. I’m on the plane now; I should be there in two hours.” Relief floods through her and she slumps against the wall, covers her eyes with one hand; she won’t have to open the door to her boyfriend smelling of sex and Mulder.

“Okay. Thanks,” she says. “Just— just text me when you land.” She ends the call and leans her back to the wall, hangs her head in her hands. 

Mulder watches her, helpless, clenching and unclenching his fists. He knows he should say something but he has no idea what. Eventually, her hands fall to her sides and she straightens. She avoids his eyes, walks into the bathroom, and quietly shuts the door on him as he stares after her.

When he finally remembers to check the hall, it’s empty.

  
  



	29. Chapter 29

Mulder violently pushes through the door to Scully’s office. Mark looks up startled, but Mulder sweeps past him and throws open her door without knocking. It doesn’t even phase him that Chris is standing in front of her desk.

“What is this Julie’s telling me about you going back to the house tonight?” he asks Scully sharply.

Julie stumbles into the office looking frantic. Mark gestures toward Scully’s door, as if she needed any help finding where Mulder went. She tentatively walks over and hovers at the threshold. 

“Mulder,” Scully begins weakly, not meeting his eyes. “Nothing’s been settled yet. And as you can see, I’m in the middle of something. I’ll find you when we’re done here.” 

Chris pins Mulder with an icy glare. “No. I think he should be here for this.” 

Mulder grits his teeth and looks up at the ceiling, putting his hands on his hips. He takes a second, then lowers his head. “Alright.” He speaks as evenly as possible. “Will someone please tell me what is going on?” 

Chris begins to reply but Scully interrupts. “Chris would like us to return to the house tonight now that forensics has cleared.”

“And you think this is a good idea?” Mulder looks at her pointedly. 

“Well she’s not staying with you,” Chris answers for her.

“Jesus,” Mulder exhales, pacing away. _What the fuck is happening? What is making this guy so goddamn unreasonable?_

“First off,” Scully protests slowly, “I did not stay with Agent Mulder last night. I stayed _at_ _his hotel._ ” Mulder stiffens at the lie, but only for a split second. “And Chris, you know what we found in our house; you knew I couldn’t stay there.” 

“That is _not the fucking point_ ,” Chris fumes, and Scully winces. She’s never seen him like this.

Chris studies Mulder’s back, his eyes narrowed. “What matters is I’m back now. You won’t be alone. So you’ll stay at _our_ home. With _me_.” 

Mulder’s anger flares alongside his fierce protectiveness. The prospect of Scully apart from him while she’s being _hunted by a killer_ is categorically unthinkable. He tenaciously refuses to entertain the possibility. 

Mulder turns back to them, forcing calm into his words. He locks eyes with Chris. “If, for some reason, the problem is Dana staying at the same hotel as me when you’re not there to chaperone, then fine — stay _with_ her. Stay wherever the hell you want — but wherever it is, I’m staying in the same building. She needs back up. You both do.” 

Chris throws up his arms. “Are you fucking kidding me? I can _easily_ hire someone to do that. We don’t need you. And by the way, I know you haven’t seen her in a while, but Dana is a Deputy Director with the FBI now. She can handle herself.”

“I know she can. If anyone knows what she can handle, it’s me,” Mulder counters ferociously. 

Mulder glances at Scully, who is staring down at her desk. _Why isn’t she speaking up?_ he wonders, frustrated. But then he thinks of this morning, sees the weight of guilt in the slump of her shoulders. She’s paralyzed with self-reproach, and he knows the feeling all too well. He resolves to go on making his case, even if he has to do it alone.

“Dana cannot be responsible for safeguarding both of you. Not when she’s the one he’s after. You two need a second agent there.” 

“And yet Julie tells me you thought it perfectly fine for her and Mark to stay together last night. I’m no mathematician, but that was a one-to-one ratio of agent-to-civilian, was it not?”

Mulder runs his hands through his hair roughly. “As far as we know, neither Mark nor Julie is currently being stalked by a murderer. And neither of them slept at their own residence last night. That was a completely different scenario from the one you’re proposing.”

Chris doesn’t respond, but his jaw is set and from the stony, obstinate expression darkening his face, Mulder knows there’s nothing he can say to make him see reason. Chris is here for a fight.

Mulder looks off into the empty corner of Scully’s office, trying to think of a way to dial back Chris’s hostility — but he has no idea where it’s even coming from. The last time he saw Chris, everything was friendly. What changed? What does he know? 

Mulder deflates, pinching the bridge of his nose in a vain attempt to stave off a pounding headache. He realizes that whatever game Chris is playing, it’s irrelevant. What matters now is Scully’s safety — not the upper hand in some love triangle… if that’s even what this is.

Mulder looks over at Julie, whom he seems to have just noticed in the doorway. It pains him, but with herculean effort and a heavy sigh, he makes the compromise: “Okay, Chris. You win. Julie can find another agent to stay with you. It doesn’t have to be me. But you can’t stay at your house. You just _can’t_. It’s not safe for either of you.”

Chris is suddenly furious — indignant that this man is still trying to tell him what he can and can’t do. “With all due respect, Agent Mulder, it’s _our_ home, and it’s _our_ safety. I think Dana and I are qualified to make that decision without your input. We are in no way obligated to do what _you_ want.” 

Mulder looks at Scully. “You want to go back there?” 

She swallows. “I— I think that would be unsafe,” she manages.

”She’s just saying that because _you’re_ here,” Chris scoffs. “She’s clearly afraid of you.”

Mulder rounds on Chris, his voice rising as frustration boils over. “Look. I don’t know what this is really about, but the fact is that a serial murderer broke into your home and marked Dana. I’m sure you remember in vivid detail the last time — what it feels like when she’s lying unconscious in a hospital bed.” Chris flinches. “Don’t put both of yourselves in danger just to make some kind of petty point.” 

“ _Petty point?_ Really?” Chris intended to bring this up in private, but he’s incensed, unable to hold back any longer. He reaches into his briefcase and pulls out an open envelope, slamming it down on Scully’s desk. She looks at it and goes pale. “Oh my God,” she whispers, looking away. 

Mulder’s eyes dart rapidly between her and Chris. After a beat, he crosses over to the desk and picks up the envelope. 

Chris ignores him, his eyes locked on Scully. “Janet picked up our mail yesterday. That was in it.” 

The envelope is from NovaIVF in Bethesda, Maryland. Mulder stares at it, blindsided. It must be paperwork for the transfer he requested. 

Chris crosses his arms. “It says there you two were married. Or _are_ married? Were you ever planning on telling me that? And you told me you couldn’t have children. I guess what you really meant was you had your eggs extracted and held on ice under this guy’s name?”

Scully is shaking her head, blinking back tears. Mulder’s heart wrenches; he can't help but feel this is all his fault. He circles around the desk, placing a comforting hand on her arm.

“ _Don’t touch her_ ,” Chris hisses with such vitriol that Mulder stumbles back, startled. He staggers even farther from her when he sees Chris’s look of rabid possessiveness. 

“You know what? I want you off this case,” Chris demands.

Mulder’s eyes widen and he blinks rapidly. “I understand that you’re upset, but that’s really not your call.” 

“Not _you_ , you asshole. Her.” 

Scully’s head shoots up. “What?” she whispers, disbelieving. 

“Your husband here or whatever the _fuck_ he is is right. This case _is_ dangerous. It’s _too_ dangerous. I’m taking you out of town to the house in New York until there’s an arrest.” 

“This is _my_ case, Chris. It’s my responsibility,” she insists, finally finding her footing. “You— you can’t seriously be asking that of me.” 

“I’m not asking you, Dana. I’m telling you.” 

Mulder has the urge to lunge at him and ring his neck.

Chris sighs and walks around the desk to Scully’s side. He gets close to her, cups her cheek softly and forces her to look at him. “Dana,” he says quietly, his voice gentle now. “I’m going to marry you. I’m not just saying that. I ordered the ring this week; you can ask Mark. You’re not going to have to do this kind of work anymore. I’ll take care of you. Please — let’s just get out of here.”

What’s happening is so surreal that Mulder wonders if he’s actually been wandering around inside his own nightmare this entire time. Never in a million years would the Scully he knew give up her career over a marriage offer. But Chris talks to her like she works because she needs the paycheck — not because she _wants_ to — or because her work is important — or because she’s actually unparalleled at it, a critical part of something good in a world that continually proves itself too evil. 

His heart breaks that she’s found herself with someone who respects her so little. He studies her, thinking she looks tortured. 

But then it occurs to him that she hasn’t yet objected.

Chris squeezes Scully’s hand. “You were so unhappy when I met you, Dana. Whatever this man did to you — we got over that together, didn’t we?” Mulder looks down at the floor, struck by an onslaught of shame and regret.

Chris brings her hand to his lips, kisses her knuckles. “Your life is so dangerous, Dana. It’s not worth it. I’m going to change that.” 

As the silence stretches, Mulder feels like an intruder — some invisible ghost clutching at what used to be, hoving on the outside, looking in. He balls his hands into fists and swallows hard.

Mulder clears his throat. “Scully... it might actually be best if I go. It’s fine if you want to tell ViCAP I’m done here; you’re the boss. And I’m sure they can send out another profiler if you need it.” He addresses Chris. “I’ll go, but please — you can’t ask Dana to drop the case."

Over Chris’s shoulder, Scully’s eyes meet Mulder’s and he registers her gratitude. That sliver of need in her drives him on. God, he’s desperate to be the kind of man who can give her something good.

“Dana is too critical,” Mulder says firmly. “She’s essential to the success of this investigation. What we’re dealing with — it’s so much bigger than eleven murders.” 

Mulder digs in his heels, Chris’s wrath be damned. “And Chris?” He waits until Chris begrudgingly turns to look at him. “You need to recognize something: Dana— she’s the best agent outside of Washington — probably including it. This case — this world — needs her. If you want to be with her, that’s something you need to accept.” 

Mulder looks down to find he’s still holding the envelope from NovaIVF. He takes the few steps to the edge of Scully’s desk and slides it next to her laptop. 

“And to clarify…” he says quietly, “we were never married.” He walks out the door, past Julie, past Mark, and straight out of the building.

  
  



	30. Chapter 30

“Mulder!” Julie shouts as she races down the entrance stairs. She sprints after him, grabbing him by the arm. He sighs and turns to her. 

She doubles over with her hands on her knees, breathing hard. Mulder looks down at her. “Scully said you run marathons.”

“I don’t do sprints,” she huffs. She looks up, searching him. “Where’s your stuff?” 

“What? Did you run out here to ask me that?” He inhales deeply, looking away. “I left it at my desk. I can’t be in there right now.” 

“He’s a dick,” Julie says. “Ok, well no, to be honest, I didn’t think that before today. I thought he was kind of great,” she admits. “But Jesus Christ, what a fucking misogynist.” 

“Yeah, well… It’s really none of my business.” He rubs his nose and squints toward his car.

“She’s not going to let you leave. The case, I mean. I don’t know about the other— well, anyway, she’s not an idiot. We need you here on this.” 

Mulder shrugs. “Oh, I don’t know. You guys _do_ have Mark now.” He tries for a smile and Julie shakes her head.

“Hey actually, can you do me a favor?” Mulder asks, and Julie nods. “I might not see either of you again after this. You need to tell your boyfriend he should think about applying to Quantico. I know Scully would support it, and I might not have the best reputation because of my current… ‘division,’ but I’d write him a recommendation, and—” 

“And you’re the ‘Golden Boy’ of the Behavioral Analysis Unit, yes, everyone knows,” Julie finishes. 

Mulder looks confused but dismisses it. “Well that’s not what I was going to say, but whatever.” He moves to continue toward his car.

“Also, he’s not my boyfriend.” 

Mulder halts. “You know what, about that,” he says. “He’s in love with you. Do you know that? And I think you should give him a shot.” He turns away, dragging his feet heavily. “I’m sure he’ll do better than I did,” he mutters under his breath. 

“He’s _in love_ with me?” Julie laughs loudly. Hearing it said so candidly makes it seem all the more absurd.

“Trust me. I know what I’m talking about,” Mulder calls back without a second glance, then raises his arm to point at the top of his head. “Golden Boy.” 

* * *

Julie walks back to the building slowly, her eyes downcast, thinking of how this drama will affect their progress on the case. When she reaches the stairs, she looks up to see Mark waiting for her outside the door.

“I almost don’t want to ask,” Julie cringes. “What’s going on in there?” 

Mark shakes his head vigorously. “Fuck that; I left.” 

“I’m poisoning your genteel vocabulary,” Julie mumbles, leaning against the stair handrail and looking up at him. 

“I can’t believe Chris,” Mark exhales. “I mean I knew he hoped she’d quit after they got married; I just never realized he thought so little of what she does. Or how good she is at it.” He shakes his head sadly, looking off into the distance.

“So hypothetically,” Julie says, crossing her arms, “despite the comforts of your trust fund, you wouldn’t ask that of someone you loved?” 

His eyes meet hers. He searches them for a long moment, then shakes his head wordlessly.

She nods. 

Mark shoves his hands into his pockets. “Do you have any idea what that envelope was about?” he asks. “Something about eggs?”

“No. But before I forget, Mulder wanted me to tell you to apply to the Academy. He said he’ll write you a recommendation,” Julie tells him, then she pauses. “I don’t think he knows that with your money, you don’t actually have to work.” 

He blinks. “That’s hypocritical.” 

“I’m _kidding_ ,” she smirks. 

Mark rolls his eyes and scratches the back of his head. “So… I’m not going back in there.” 

“Yeeeaaahhh…” Julie agrees, “me neither.” She checks her watch, which reads 11:03am. “Early lunch?” 

* * *

After lunch, Julie and Mark are walking down the hall when they run into Scully. 

“Julie, Mark,” she exhales, “I’m so sorry about that… scene in my office earlier. I’m so embarrassed.”

“Don’t apologize,” Mark says casually. “Not a big deal.” 

But Julie is studying Scully. “Can we talk?” Julie asks. 

Scully nods and they walk together into her office, shutting the door behind them. 

“Where did you leave it?”

Scully sits at her desk, looking exhausted. “Um… Yeah. It’s over.” 

Julie sits down across from her. “I’m sorry.” 

Scully shakes her head. “It probably shouldn’t have started in the first place.” 

“There was no way for you to know he felt that way — about your career, or —” she scoffs “about women in general, frankly. I always thought he seemed so perfect.”

“That’s not what I mean,” Scully says sadly. “It shouldn’t have started because I wasn’t ready for a relationship. I let it get too far.” Remorse clouds her face. “It was selfish. I was in love with someone else and I didn’t want to admit it.”

“Was?” Julie asks. “You _were_ in love with someone else?”

Scully looks up at her but doesn’t answer. 

“He left,” Julie tells her hesitantly. “I don’t know where he went. Probably back to the hotel. But I think… I think you should try to see him. Stop him from leaving and...” she gives Scully a small smile. “Just get it over with so we can get back to work.”

  
  



	31. Chapter 31

Mulder has just finished zipping his luggage when he realizes he needs to get his shit from the field office before he can actually leave. _Maybe I can call Mark to help_. He sighs and falls backwards onto the bed. “Goddamn it,” he mumbles.

He closes his eyes. Is he really going to leave things like this with Scully? _Aren’t you supposed to fight for the person you love?_ “Maybe if you’re not Fox Mulder, bringer of death and destruction and all things criminally paranormal,” he mutters to himself. 

This morning, though. Hadn’t she said she still loved him? Or had he imagined it? His cock stirs at the thought and his fists clench. He hasn’t had a case of blue balls that painful since her first year, in Alaska. If he tries, he can still hear from across the years how she gasped — how it echoed off the storeroom walls when he grabbed her, and how she shuddered under his fingertips as he probed the skin of her soft, ivory neck for parasitic ice worms. It was the least and most sexy moment of his life up until that point. Maybe it was just cabin fever and paranoia and the prospect of imminent death, but whatever the reason, he had to conceal a raging erection all the way from Icy Cape to Alexandria. When he got home, he slammed the door to his apartment and braced himself against it with one arm, jerking himself off right there in his doorway. He imagined his green, untrustworthy, and arguably genius partner pressed against the wall of that storeroom, her cheek smashed against cold metal, begging him to go on as he fucked her beneath that hideously oversized plaid shirt. God, he had wanted her so badly. Even then. That time, he came harder than he ever had in his life — nearly sunk to his knees with relief.

He sits up, a sudden, unbidden thought springing to mind. Someone armed needs to accompany Scully if she leaves the building. With everything that happened this morning, it’s entirely possible this never occurred to anyone. He grabs his cell and calls the field office main line, then gets patched through to Mark. After two rings, he glances at his watch and sees it's 12:39pm. He prays Mark hasn’t left for lunch.

“Deputy Director Scully’s Office. This is Mark.” 

“Oh, Thank God,” Mulder breathes. 

“Mulder?”

“Yeah. Listen. We need someone to arrange accompaniment for Scully if she leaves the building. She can’t go anywhere alone.” The words cascade from him with urgency. “And I don’t give a shit what Chris wants. It’s not negotiable. Scully — look, she’s feeling guilty and she doesn’t want to upset him, which is fine, but she knows better. She knows she needs to be careful.” A half-second beat. “You know what? No offense but find me Julie. I trust her to stay with Scully for now, and she can probably find someone to assign before you can, and see Mark, this is why you should become an agent, because when—”

“Dana left,” Mark interrupts. 

“What?” Mulder snaps, bolting up on his feet.

Julie comes on the line. “ _Shit_. She _left_? She said she’d wait for me to get back from forensics.”

“I think she said she’d be back before you left forensics.” Mulder hears Mark say in the background. Julie groans loudly.

“Ok, ok,” Mulder says, trying to calm himself as much as Julie. “I’m sure it’s fine. We’re just being cautious. She left with Chris?”

“What? No. She was going to see you.” 

Mulder is too concerned to contemplate the implication. “By herself? When did she leave?” 

“27 minutes ago,” Mark answers.

“He’s very precise,” Julie mutters.

“Well it’s a ten minute drive.” Mulder hangs up without another word and dials Scully’s cell. “Pick up,” he says into the phone, pacing. “Pick up, pick up, pick up…” 

Scully’s voicemail clicks on. “ _Fuck_.” He dials again, but grabs his keys and runs out the door as it rings. 

* * *

Scully has no plan. She hasn’t the faintest idea what she will say to Mulder when she gets there. She’s _never_ known what to say to him — how to tell him she wasn’t fine, that she was dying, that she hated his loud ties or when women flirted with him on a case. How to tell him she was leaving, even — or that she’d never really gotten over him. 

But as long as she hasn’t known what to say to him, she’s known that she needs him. And right now, she definitely needs him — on this case, and probably in other ways. The words will come, she tells herself. If she’s honest, they’ve been at the tip of her tongue for years.

She’s jogging to her parking spot when she remembers Mulder drove them in that morning. She throws her head back and sighs, then uses her cell to call for a cab. 

She gives the dispatcher her name and the office address. A five minute wait, they tell her, and it sounds like a lifetime. She wrings her hands together, her heart racing. Two minutes later, a black Escalade pulls up and the driver hops out to open the door for her. 

“Dana Scully? Headed to the Courtyard Hotel?” 

“Um, yeah," she says hesitantly, "but I called for a cab, not a towncar." Inside the car she hears the radio chatter of a cab dispatcher. 

“I know, mam. Our service uses the cabs and towncars interchangeably. It won’t cost anything additional,” he smiles. “I just pulled the high card today with the other drivers, so I got the first pick of the lot.” 

Scully smiles distractedly and climbs in, her hands already trembling with the anticipation of seeing Mulder.

  
  



	32. Chapter 32

Mulder tears into the parking lot of the field office and leaves his car haphazardly parked in a handicapped spot. He takes the stairs to the building two at a time and runs directly into Julie as soon as he gets in the door. She’s carrying her laptop under her arm, running down the hall.

“She’s not answering her phone,” he says as she passes him. She grabs his arm and pulls him along with her, not slowing her pace.

“I know. And now it’s off. We can’t get a trace. I have Greg pulling up the security cam footage so we can see where she went.” Julie’s expression is grave, and she’s wired with a kind of fierce urgency and determination Mulder hasn’t yet seen in her. It brings him a modicum of comfort. 

Julie bounds down the stairs so quickly that Mulder almost can’t keep up. When she reaches the basement, she swings open the first door on her right to reveal a surveillance room. Small screens displaying live feeds of the building cover the walls. 

She pushes aside a security guard to stand next to Greg. “Where is it?” she demands shortly. 

“Here,” he says, pointing to the screen in front of him. 

“Why don’t I see her?” 

“I forgot what time you said,” he admits. 

“12:13. Pull it up _now_.” 

Greg enters the time into the computer in front of him and Scully appears on the screen. Mulder leans in over Greg’s shoulder, watching.

“She’s realizing she doesn’t have her car,” Mulder says. “I drove us in.” 

“Fast forward at 4.0 speed,” Julie instructs. They watch a rapid replay of Scully making a call and checking her watch. A black Escalade pulls up in front of her.

Julie points to the screen. “Stop it there and zoom in on the license.”

“There’s— there's no license,” Greg stammers, alarmed. 

Mulder straightens and tugs at his hair in frustration. “Why would she do that? Why would she get into a car with no license plate? That’s not like her,” he insists. 

“She was distracted,” Julie exhales, glancing sideways at him. “Emotions were running high.” 

Mulder opens his mouth to ask what happened after he left, but Julie puts up a hand to stop him. “Not now. Look— pause it there. The driver.” She leans in. “ _Fuck_. I can’t see his face because of that fucking hat.” She turns to Greg. “Put out an APB for this car’s make and model. Driver is white, 6’3”, black suit, black cap.” 

“There’s got to be a million fucking cars that look just like that in LA,” Julie mutters, exasperated. She crosses her arms and chews on her lip. “Where did the car come from? What street?” 

Greg rewinds and they watch the car emerge from around the corner in the top left of the frame. Julie looks around for the security guard. “I need the footage that shows Veterans Ave.” The security guard gapes at her, frozen. “ _Now_. I need it _now_.” 

He looks around frantically. “Um, it’s this one I think.” Julie pulls out the office chair in front of the monitor and sits. She enters in 12:00pm. 

“That’s too early,” Mulder says. 

“No.” Julie leans in and points to a parking lot in front of a bank. “See that? He’s parked there. He’s waiting. It’s how he was able to pull up so quickly after she called — _before_ a real cab could.” She looks up at Mulder. “He must have been sitting there listening to cab dispatches over the radio, just waiting for her to call for a car.” 

“But how would he know to do that?” 

“I don’t know. Somehow he knew she wouldn’t have her own car... Maybe he knew where she stayed last night and he’s been watching you two — saw you leave the hotel together this morning, in one car.” 

Mulder nods, comprehending. “And if he followed us in this morning… and then later saw me leave the office _without_ her…” he thinks aloud. “There was about an hour between when I left and when she did. He could have guessed that I wasn’t coming back — assumed that she’d _have_ to call a car at some point — and then just decided to wait it out until she did.” 

“Okay. Hold on though. I have a question,” Julie interjects. “Unless this guy regularly drives a _car service Escalade_ — which I seriously doubt that he does — then where the fuck did he get one to pick her up in? Who just has something like that at their disposal? I mean, if they _aren't_ a chauffeur?” 

Mulder’s face scrunches. “How do you know it’s a _car service_ Escalade, again?” 

“The windows. See how darkly they’re tinted? That’s illegal on a regular car in California. Plus he’d need a radio to listen to the cab dispatch. He _could_ have his own radio, but—”

“But those two things combined, yeah,” Mulder finishes, nodding.

“Let’s put a pin in this.” Julie whips her head around. “Greg? Call the bank on Veterans and see if we can get better footage of the car or the driver. That’s our best bet. Have Anne clean up any stills that might be useful and send them out everywhere. And email me those stills as soon as you get them.” 

Julie is already scooping up her laptop and heading for the exit. Mulder hurries after her.

“We need to get to the hotel,” he says. “If he _was_ watching us— then maybe there will be something on their cameras that we can use.” She nods and sails past him out the door, sprinting back up to the stairs. 

* * *

“What did you find?” Mark asks from the top of the stairs. 

“He picked her up,” Julie says. “She thought it was a car service.”

“ _Fuck_. Well give me something to do,” Mark insists as Julie passes him on her way out the building.

“No,” she responds shortly, pulling her keys out of her pocket. “Stay here.”

He hurries to keep up with her and Mulder. “Where are you going?” 

“The hotel. We think he was watching them. The security footage we have here is useless so we need to see if the hotel has anything better.” 

Julie uses her remote to unlock her car. Mulder gets in the front seat and Mark opens the back door. “I’m coming,” he tells her decisively. 

* * *

Mulder flashes his badge at the front desk of the Courtyard. “We need to see your security camera footage. Immediately.”

They’re led into a back office. They pull up a shot of the parking lot facing the hotel, as well as a view from just inside the door to the hotel lobby, facing the lot. They split the two cameras between themselves, watching closely as they run through the footage at ten times normal speed. 

Mark is looking at the footage from the camera in the parking lot. He spots something curious and rewinds his tape to 5:00am, speeds through it at 20.0 speed to confirm. 

“Here,” Mark says, stopping the tape. “This man.” 

Mulder and Julie rush over and lean in behind him. “He’s been sitting in this silver Range Rover for hours. You can’t even tell someone is in there until he comes out at around 7:30am. He enters the hotel, is in there for maybe ten minutes, then comes back out to his car. About an hour later, Dana and Mulder leave the hotel, and he pulls out right after they do.” 

Mark sits up. “This has to be him. But I’m too far from the building to see a license plate. Can you see it on yours?” 

“You can’t see that car _at all_ from this camera angle,” Mulder says, dejected. 

“Give me the time,” Julie says.

“7:36 is when you’d see him on yours.” 

Julie pulls up the frame and they watch the man walk through the automatic glass doors and into the lobby. 

Julie taps the monitor with a finger. “This is the same guy who picked her up. I’m sure of it. Same outfit, same build.” She turns to the security officer hanging back against the wall. “Can you zoom in on this guy’s face?” 

“I can try.” He hastily reaches over and types something into the keyboard, manipulating the image. As they wait for it to load, Mark shakes his head in confusion. 

“So he’s sitting here in a silver Range Rover until 8:30… and then he picks her up in a black Escalade at 12:16? What the hell? Does he own a car rental company?”

“That’s not even the most confusing part, Mark,” Julie gripes. “The black Escalade that picked her up was a _car service_ Escalade. So he exchanged a _non-car service Range Rover_ for a _car-service Escalade_ — just to get her in the car.”

“Who the fuck is this guy?” Mulder huffs under his breath. 

The security guard interrupts. “I have it.” 

A clear shot of the man’s face fills the screen. 

Mark grips Julie’s shoulder and she covers her mouth with her hand. 

“What?” Mulder demands. “What is it?” 

Mark looks at Mulder, his face pale. “That’s Todd. That’s the caseworker we met with.” 

  
  



	33. Chapter 33

Mulder, Julie, and Mark rush up to Mulder’s hotel room to confer in private. Julie notes the open connecting door, and that Mulder’s bed hasn’t been slept in. 

“Someone knocked on our door — I mean, Scully’s door — around 7:30 this morning. We never figured out who it was.” 

Mark looks up. “Around 7:30? Then it was him.” 

“But he didn’t follow us to our rooms last night,” Mulder insists. “I’m sure of that. We were in the elevator alone and I checked the hall before we got to our doors.”

“Who knew your room numbers?” Julie asks. “Besides us? Because the desk won’t give that information out to anyone.” 

“Chris?” Mark suggests, and Mulder considers. “Probably. But why would he tell anyone?” 

Suddenly Mulder is overcome with nausea and his knees buckle. He crumples onto the mattress, head in his hands. “This is not good,” he says, his voice breaking with despair. “This guy doesn’t waste time. He just kills, carves a fucking picture, and then leaves. What if she—” He swallows and shakes his head. “I shouldn’t have left her.” 

“This is not helpful,” Julie retorts sharply, her temper surfacing.

Mark reaches for Julie’s arm and squeezes it reassuringly. “Okay,“ he starts calmly. “Let’s take a step back. What can we use? What do we know that can give us some direction here? The two cars?” 

Just then, Julie’s phone chimes with a text from Greg. “Greg sent stills of the car from the bank cams.” 

She whips open her laptop, and Mulder tugs off his suit jacket, standing to join Mark in looking over her shoulder. “Mark — so you know, on the field office cams we saw that the Escalade didn’t have plates — so don’t get your hopes up.”

As she navigates to her email and loads the images, she fills them in. “Greg says the car arrived at the bank at 11:45, roughly 45 minutes after you left, Mulder.” 

A still image of the back of the Escalade appears on the screen. Mulder’s brows furrow and he takes the laptop from Julie, bringing it close, just a few inches from his nose.

“What?” Julie asks.

Mulder points to the bumper, squinting. “I think there’s a sticker... What does that say?” He uses the keyboard to zoom in, then hands the laptop off to Mark as he glances around the room for his glasses.

“LA Elite Gymnastics? Or IP Elite?” Mark ventures. “Well the logo is definitely someone on a balance beam, so it’s something to do with gymnastics...” 

Mulder freezes. “Charlie,” he whispers.

Julie and Mark’s heads snap to him.

“That car belongs to Chris’s driver.” 

  
  



	34. Chapter 34

Mark gets on the phone with Greg, instructing him to update the APB with a description of the sticker and more details on the driver’s appearance. Meanwhile, Julie leans back against the wall, trying to process.

"So you think this Escalade is Charlie's car — as in, the car he uses to drive Chris around."

Mulder nods.

"But the guy we're looking for: he's _not_ Charlie?" 

"He's definitely not Charlie. I met Charlie. The guy who picked up Scully is someone else."

"Wha— When did you meet him?" 

“He drove us to LAX when we were flying out to Monterey. In a black Escalade. He was talking about how his daughter does gymnastics.” 

Julie’s head tilts suspiciously. “A lot of people do gymnastics, Mulder.” 

“I just have a feeling,” he replies, shaking his head. “I can’t explain it. But I overheard Charlie telling Chris he was going out on vacation this week.” 

Mark is off the phone now and listening in. “Ok, so if it _is_ his car, him being on vacation explains how it was available for this other guy to use it. But how would he have access to it?” 

“Call Chris,” Julie says to Mark. “We need to ask him about this — find out if we’re even on the right track. You’re the only one with his number.”

Mark dials, chews on the inside of his cheek as he waits for it to connect. He shakes his head. “Dammit. It’s off.” He locks eyes with Julie; they’re both thinking the same thing: after Dana broke up with him, he probably needed some time alone.

An epiphany lights up Mark’s face and he starts making another call. “I have Chris’s secretary’s number.” 

Julie makes a “what, why” gesture as he puts the phone on speaker. “Blind date Chris set up,” he explains. “It didn’t go well.” 

“Oh well then, that’s just great; she’ll be dying to help,” Julie mutters, pacing away. 

“Janet? Hi, this is Mark. Dana’s assistant. Listen: we have reason to believe Dana is in danger. I don’t have time to explain, but we need to know what the firm does with its drivers’ cars when they’re not in use.” 

Janet doesn’t respond. “Hello?” Mark prompts. 

“Yeah, sorry, this is a weird call to get,” says a woman over the line. “Um, the drivers are allowed to keep the cars for personal use off hours. It’s Chris’s policy. Most take the cars home with them.” 

“Where’s Charlie's car right now?”  
  
“Charlie? How do you know Charlie? Whatever. He’s on vacation. I assume the car is with him.” 

Mark exhales, frustrated, then pauses as he tries to reorient himself.

“No. Wait,” Janet resumes, thinking aloud. “He and his wife came by the office to pick up some tickets from me. He told me he was going to a gymnastics competition in the Bay Area… I _think_ he said he was leaving the car _here_ while he was away.” She pauses again. “No he _definitely_ did. He asked me if I thought it would be alright if he left it in our garage — I think he said they were repaving their driveway? Anyway that’s why his wife was here: she met him at the office so she could drive them both home.” 

Chris covers the receiver and looks at Mulder. “Should I ask her to check if the car is still in the garage?”

“It won’t be,” Mulder asserts darkly. “It’s wherever Scully is.”

“Stay by your phone if you can,” Mark instructs Janet. “I’ll call you when we find Dana.” 

“Hold on! Jesus _Christ_ ,” she exclaims. “Have you talked to Chris about this? I can’t get ahold of him. He had a _very_ important meeting he just missed with the investment committee — he’s been trying to get this approval for over a year. I couldn't believe he didn't show.” 

Mark’s eyes widen and he scans Mulder and Julie for an answer, but both just gape at him. “Um… Yeah. Uh, why don’t you just text me if you hear from him. Right away, please.” He hangs up over the sounds of Janet’s protests. 

Mark groans, pressing his hands to his temples. “Now where’s Chris? What is happening?!”

“Alright,” Mulder says more loudly than he intended. He lowers his voice. “Alright. I think it’s safe to say the man who has Scully knows Chris. Neither Chris nor Scully are answering their phones. I’m going to guess they’re together, or at least headed to the same place.”

Julie looks like her brain is sagging under the weight of all this. “Do you think Chris is working with this guy? I don’t understand.” 

Mulder starts pacing. “I don’t know. I have no idea. For all we know, he’s a victim just like Scully. I mean, the perp _has_ been targeting couples...” He stops at the window and his forehead falls against the glass with a thunk. “Our only hope is to find this Escalade. How do we do that?” he asks himself. 

“What if,” Mark offers slowly, thinking. “What if— and hold on, I know it’s a long shot, but—”

Julie crosses her arms. “Spit it out, Mark.” 

“We should try to trace Chris’s cellphones. He has two. He took calls on both of them when we were at lunch on Monday. Chances are if Dana’s is off, his will be too. But who knows. Maybe this guy missed one of Chris’s phones — didn’t know he had two, so he only turned off one of them. Or if Chris is involved, _he_ might have forgotten to turn one of them off, or—”

“Better than nothing,” Mulder interrupts.

Mark runs over to the bedside table and grabs a pen and the hotel notepad. He copies Chris’s number down from his phone and rips the page off, handing it to Julie, who’s already calling the office. 

“I’m going to call Janet back and see if we can get the number for his second cell.” He jogs off toward the bathroom, then reappears a few seconds later, handing Julie the second number scrawled onto the notepad. 

Mulder sways on his feet as he wonders how directionless he’d be right now without these two. Seven hours ago Scully said she still loved him; three hours ago he watched Chris propose to her; and now he’s not sure she’s even still alive. He’s such an emotional wreck, he thinks he might have melted into a puddle of useless shit if he were on his own right now.

Julie puts her phone on speaker. The three of them stand in silence as they wait for someone to come back on the line and tell them if the trace worked. 

“The first one is a no,” they hear a woman shout, presumably a good distance from the phone. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” Mulder curses under his breath. He feels sweat break out in his palms as they wait. He’s always been terrible at standing still. 

“We have it!” the same voice shouts. “Julie. It’s stationary. 7049 Birdview Ave in Malibu.” Mark jots the address down as Mulder extracts his second handgun from the bottom of his luggage. Julie pulls up an online map. She looks closely at it and then slams the laptop shut, heading for the door. Mark and Mulder follow her out. 

As they run down the hall toward the elevator, Julie is barking orders into the phone. “It’s on the beach. I need plain-clothed agents at Westward Beach ASAP canvassing the location; they may be able to see or hear something from there. Have SWAT and four ambulances meet us at the Zuma Beach parking lot. Block off Birdview Ave on both ends, but _no sirens_. I don’t want to tip him off. And no radio — he might be listening, so use cell phones. Oh, and have Amber get us the name of the homeowner, and any other information she can find.”

She looks up at Mark. “I think it’s time we learned Todd’s real name.”

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little update: I’m going to continue to try and post at least one chapter daily, but I probably can’t do much more than that. It’s all written, but the editing is time consuming, and I think if my assistant has to schedule one more Zoom meeting with me just to tell me to "read my fucking email," he’s gonna quit. And I wouldn't blame him. 😬
> 
> It’s still shaping up to be roughly 41-42 chapters total. 
> 
> Thanks for reading everyone! Seriously, it's the one bright spot in my life right now!


	35. Chapter 35

“Let me drive,” Mark offers as Julie reaches for the door handle with a trembling hand. “That way you can make calls on the way.” Julie looks relieved. She nods her ascent and jogs over to the passenger side door. 

By some miracle, traffic is mild. Thirty minutes later they’re pulling into the beach parking lot, where SWAT team members are already gearing up. Julie jumps out of the car, grabs two vests, and throws one to Mulder.

Mulder is buckling the vest when in his periphery, he hallucinates an apparition of Scully standing next to him, checking the clip in her handgun. His partner, always there by his side, even when she's not. He shakes it off.

He watches as Julie pulls Mark close to her by his arm. “You know you can’t go in with us, right? You need to stay here,” she says quietly. 

Mark swallows and nods, his face drained of color. “Of course.”

She looks down and starts adjusting the straps on her vest, but Mark taps the bottom of her chin with his index finger. She looks up and their eyes meet. “Be careful,” he whispers, his voice strained. 

Mulder is flooded with the memory of their final showdown with Robert Modell — of kneeling on a SWAT van floor, forcing Scully to lift her eyes to him. Somehow, the fear in her compelled bravery in him. He left his gun with her and went in unarmed, more afraid that he’d end up pointing it at her than he was of getting himself killed.

Kneeling before her, Mulder made a joke just to see her smile — so he could take that smile with him in lieu of his gun, like a good luck charm. He ran his thumb over her knee cap, and she covered his hands with hers. 

Back then, he never would have said what he wanted to in words — but God, he had tried, with everything in him, to tell her how he felt with his eyes. 

Later that night, as he sat slumped on his couch in the dark, his mind’s eye played on endless loop the tears rolling down Scully’s cheeks while he pointed that gun at her. His stomach rolled. Around 3am, he’d grabbed his keys and driven to Georgetown. He just needed to see her. 

He let himself into her apartment and found all the lights in her living room off. Embers smoldered in the fireplace. The place smelled like her, and he breathed her in greedily. A half-empty glass of wine sat on the coffee table, her pink lipstick on the rim. 

He padded silently into her bedroom doorway. She lay asleep on the mattress, still dressed in her suit. Modell’s medical file and MRIs were scattered around her. He leaned against the door jam and shook his head at the two of them, remembering what Scully had said just a few hours ago as they left the hospital. _So much for ‘not letting him take up another minute of our time.’_

He crossed the threshold, sat on the mattress next to her and studied her peaceful face. It took his breath away, the relief that filled him just to see her calm and safe — to have her close. He stayed there for hours, watching the rise and fall of her chest, until the sun began to spread itself across her floor. He pressed his lips to her forehead lightly and slipped out before she woke. The memory seems distant and recent at the same time.

A young man appears in front of him holding a wearable video camera, snapping him out of his reverie. “Are you Agent Mulder? I need to get this on you.” 

“Thanks,” Mulder says when the camera is lodged securely behind his ear.” The man is already hurrying on to the next task. Mulder looks around for Julie, who is standing in a huddle with other agents and SWAT team members, looking at an aerial shot of the property. He jogs over and joins them in formulating a plan for surrounding and entering the house. 

“Agent Mulder is a trained negotiator,” Julie informs the others. “Do you want to try and go in first?” 

What he really wants is to go in, guns blazing, and murder everyone who isn’t Scully. “Yeah,” he relents. 

“Listen,” he tells the huddle. “The perpetrator thinks he’s doing good when he commits these murders. If Scully is still alive,” he swallows his emotion, “then he’s hesitating because he doesn’t _want_ to kill her. All his other murders he saw as an act of justice. But Scully, she’d be collateral damage — _innocent_ collateral damage. He won’t want that, and I’ll be able to work with it. Maybe even talk him down.”

It occurs to Mulder that he’s trying to convince himself of all this by saying it aloud.

Mulder makes eye contact with the SWAT lead. “I don’t know how he’ll behave if he feels threatened. So everyone needs to hang back: you _cannot_ be seen or heard until I call you, or until you hear shots fired.” 

He looks off toward the ocean then. “I just need a minute,” he murmurs, walking off, searching for a space to quiet his nerves.

In the background, Julie continues on, leading preparations. He hears seagulls call and the waves coming to shore. He remembers how he and Scully stood on this very beach only a few days ago, kneeling over a crime scene and trying to reestablish something he’s not sure they ever really lost. He had let himself believe that she might find it in herself to forgive him.

He breathes deeply, closes his eyes. “Stay with me,” he whispers. “I’m coming.” He sends his message off to her in the wind. 

Amber approaches Mulder with a file folder. “This is everything we could pull on the homeowner. His driver’s license photo matches the security footage from the hotel, so we know it’s him. His name is Jeffrey Clarke. From an extremely wealthy family in New York. 38, no advanced degrees, and no employment history. Years ago he had a six-month stint at a mental health rehabilitation center in New York, where he was treated for depression and anxiety. But he has no criminal history — not even a parking ticket. He inherited this house from his father, who passed away four years ago. As far as we can tell, he’s been residing here in Southern California for about eighteen months — since right before the murders began.” 

"If you don't count Mary's murder," Mulder corrects.

"Right," Amber agrees.

“Thanks,” Mulder says, taking the file. Amber nods shortly and jogs back toward the other agents.

Mulder catches sight of Mark standing off to the side next to Julie’s car, his arms crossed. He’s staring at her somberly as she finishes tying her ponytail into a topknot.

He walks over to Mark, comes up alongside him and leans back against the car. Julie is now sitting on the back of a black van lacing up boots in place of her plumps. 

“I, uh, I’m gonna do what I can to make sure no one else has to go in. There’s a good chance I can diffuse the situation without use of force.” 

Mark nods silently, eyes still on Julie. A moment passes in companionable silence. “How long were you together? You and Dana?” 

Mulder is caught off guard by the question. “Um, we were partners for four and a half years. We were… together… maybe six weeks.” 

Mark’s head snaps to look at Mulder. “What? Just six weeks? You’re kidding.” 

Mulder chuckles at his reaction. “I… Yeah, I don’t know. I was afraid to make a move — for _years_. I didn’t know how she felt.” He shrugs. “I still never know.” 

“I get that,” Mark commiserates. “So then how did it finally happen?” 

Mulder leans his head back against the car, looking up at the afternoon sky. “She knew how I felt. It was just a matter of her coming around — of her _wanting_ to come around.” 

A seagull calls overhead, and Mulder watches it circle gracefully above them. “What went wrong?” Mark asks. 

Mulder sighs. “I made the mistake of thinking it was more important to protect her than to let her make her own decisions.” 

“Wow. What are the chances that _same exact thing_ ends two of her relationships in a row?” 

Mulder’s heart rate speeds, but he tries to sound nonchalant. “Is that what happened after I left? With Chris?”

“I think so. I don’t know exactly. But I think it might be over.”

Mulder studies him for a moment, then looks back out toward the beach. 

Mark chews on his lower lip. “Huh. I misspoke. I said the same thing ended _two_ of her relationships… but I kind of doubt yours ever really ended.” 

Mulder doesn’t respond. Mark returns to watching Julie, his forehead creased with concern.

“She’ll be fine,” Mulder assures him. “Also, she’ll come around. People like Scully and Julie — they have to devote a lot of bravery to their work. It can be hard to take on other kinds of risk... when this is your life. And that’s what love is: a risk.”

Mulder looks at Julie, crouching in the van and pushing a small battering ram toward a SWAT member on the ground. “But at their core, courage is what defines them. So she’ll let you in, when she’s ready." He smiles. "But when she does," he punches Mark’s arm lightly, "don’t screw it up.”

Julie jumps out of the van and looks around, wiping her palms on her thighs. “Mulder!” she calls. “It’s time.” 

Mulder nods, dials in his partner telepathically. _Let’s get this show on the road._

  
  



	36. Chapter 36

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warnings: Implied/Referenced Child Abuse | Implied/Referenced Self-Harm | Implied/Referenced Suicide Attempt. No depictions are particularly graphic.

_Xx Before Then xX_

When Jeff was a child, his bedroom overlooked the roof of The Met. Contrary to what you’d expect, watching thousands of people pass under your window every day has a way of making an only child feel especially isolated. For his fifth birthday, his father bought him a telescope, and he used it to observe the passing pedestrians rather than the stars; all those people he’d never interact with felt far more mysterious and unknowable than the cosmos.

He especially liked watching the mothers. He’d looked on as women smiled into their strollers, waving brightly colored rattles and stuffed toys. They’d meet on the steps with other women with strollers, take out tupperware of goldfish crackers or cheerios, or thermists of something hot and steamy in the winter. They’d walk two-by-two into the park, laughing or whispering to each other.

One spring, when on his weekly stroll down the Bridle path holding his father’s hand, a group of women with strollers passed them, headed in the opposite direction. Jeff looked up and asked if _his_ mother ever put him in a stroller and took him to the park. His father explained that those women weren’t mothers; they were something called au pairs. Then he leaned down and whispered, “Mommies who live where we do don’t take their children to the park themselves. They can’t be bothered.” He straightened and continued walking. “But we’re special. I love you more than any mother could. Don’t I take you here every Sunday?” 

Later, as they sat on the sidewalk outside Lexington Candy Shop with old fashioned ice cream floats, for the first time, Jeff asked why he didn’t have a mommy. His father was silent for a long while before he answered.

“When you were born, your mommy was very sick,” he explained slowly. “She couldn’t take care of you. She had to give you up. But I found you,” he smiled, tapping the top of Jeff’s head with an index finger. “And I loved you so much, I did everything I could to make sure you’d come home with me and no one else. I’ve loved you since the moment I first saw you, son. We don’t need a mommy; we just need us.” 

At the time, Jeff found this answer sufficient — reassuring, even. He didn’t understand the many ways in which his life was different from the lives of other children. He thought all children’s houses were their own cities — with maids, and valets, and drivers, and chefs, and elevators that opened into their foyers. He thought all children took rides on small airplanes to winter houses in sunny places like Saint-Tropez and Malibu, and got to their riding lessons in Connecticut from the Downtown Heliport, and learned to read and add numbers from private tutors at home. 

But the older he got, the more he ached for the company of those strangers on the street below. When Jeff was ten, he’d snuck past the staff one summer afternoon before his dad returned home from work. He made it all the way to the Pinetum Playground. He watched from a bench while three boys stood in an open field laughing and throwing around a baseball. He didn’t have any friends his age; he didn’t go to school, and he had no idea where else a kid could make friends, if not at school. His legs swung beneath him as he stared longingly in their direction. 

Eventually, one of the boys looked over at him. He got closer to his friends, put his hand up to shield his whispers as he pointed right at Jeff. He and one of the other boys laughed loudly. Jeff turned scarlet and pulled the hood of his jacket up to cover his face. 

Then the one boy who hadn’t laughed furrowed his brow, and began to approach the bench. Jeff panicked, started to get to his feet to flee. But the boy smiled at him. “I’m Chris,” he said, extending his hand quite formally. “Me and my friends were gonna play tag, but we need four people. Wanna play?” 

When he got home an hour later, his heart pounding from running and laughing and making promises for next Tuesday, the elevator opened to reveal his furious father pacing the foyer. 

Jeff had always lived under strict instructions not to leave the house unaccompanied. As punishment, he was locked in his room for a month, only allowed out for baths. Even his meals and lessons were taken in his room. And other bad things happened too. But in the middle of the night, after yet another time his father came and left his bed unseen by everyone but him, Jeff had stared forlorn up at the moon until he realized quite suddenly that you don’t really _need_ four people to play tag; you could easily have played with just three. And so in spite of the pain and the fear and the tears drying on his pillow, that night, he’d gone to sleep smiling.

* * *

Jeff had a talisman — one precious thread tying him to his real parents. His father told him that when he was taken from his sick mother as a malnourished infant, this book was his only possession. 

He kept the book tucked under his bed, and would take it out and read through it almost every day. He’d sit on the floor of his bedroom for hours sometimes, tracing the gold leaf adorning the runes at the back of the book. When his father had started to hurt him, he invented a ritual: he’d take the book out, place his palm to the cover and close his eyes, then pray that his real mom and dad could hear him — that they’d come to rescue him, and put an end to all his pain. 

Two months ago, his tutor began reading Herodotus’s _Histories_ to him. When a Spartan leader was imprisoned for cutting himself on his legs, Jeff asked his tutor why someone would deliberately hurt themselves. His tutor believed that children were never too young to be told the truth; she carefully explained that for some people who are unwell and unhappy, self-harm is a way to _relieve_ pain, not to cause it. How was she to know that Jeff, already believing himself both unwell and unhappy, would take note — would try anything he could to relieve his pain? 

Jeff decided he would add something similar to his ritual. First, he snuck into his father’s office and stole his shiny, gold-plated letter-opener. His father told him it was special — that it used to belong to his own mother — and whenever he used it, his father said he’d feel her presence. That’s how Jeff knew it was the perfect tool for this new part of the ritual; it was already imbued with magic for making contact with mothers.

He took out his talisman and turned to the back of the book. He knew the Spartan in the story had carved into his leg, but that seemed too scary. Instead, he used the letter-opener to carve runes into the wood under his bed frame. He’d draw _Love_ , when he’d wish for his mother; _Courage_ , when he’d imagine running away; _Mercy_ , when he’d beg whoever was listening to make this the last time it happened. 

Still, nothing changed. And he didn’t feel any particular sense of relief.

Now, grounded because of his illicit excursion to the park, he flipped to the page depicting a farmer boy and his sword. “Courage… Honor… Respect,” he read aloud. He imagined he had a sword like the boy in the book, and he could fight his way out of this house and into the park. But he didn’t _really_ want to hurt anyone; he just wanted to play tag. 

He closed his eyes and pressed his palm to the cover; maybe this time, his prayer would work. He crawled under his bed frame and carved the rune for _Friendship_. But as he drew in the last line, the letter-opener slipped and cut open the palm of his left hand. Jeff scrambled from under the bed, blood leaking from his wound. His father would see what he did; he’d get into trouble. His chest got so tight with panic and fear that he could barely breathe. 

Then, the cut on his hand began to throb. He focused his mind on the pain, because isn’t that what his tutor had said? That a cut to your skin could _relieve_ pain? And the pain in his hand _had_ steadied him, wiped the anxiety from his troubled mind. 

That evening, his father brought his dinner to him himself. He knocked on Jeff’s door, kissed the top of his head, and set his meal down on his desk. 

“I’ve been thinking,” his father said. “You _know_ how I feel about you being left unsupervised. I don’t like it. It’s unsafe,” he contended while Jeff stared at a spot on the carpet, concealing his hand inside the sleeve of his sweater. “But, I also know you’ve been unhappy lately. And I can’t have that.” His father sighed. “If you want to invite maybe one or two boys over here to play with you, that would be fine — as long as it’s okay with their parents, too. But _no going to the park alone_.” 

It was then that Jeff suspected he’d finally found the magic combination. Wasn’t that something else he heard in _Histories_? That sometimes, you needed to make a blood sacrifice if you wanted your prayer answered? 

The next Sunday, his father accompanied him to the Pinetum Playground. They sat on the same bench and waited for his friends to show, while his father read the newspaper. After they’d waited for close to an hour, Jeff’s heart started to sink. If they didn’t come today, his dad could change his mind before he had another chance. 

But as if on cue, Chris and his two friends appeared on the opposite end of the grassy area, pulling baseballs and frisbees and water guns from a cart dragged by a young woman. She ruffled Chris’s hair and said, “I’ll be right over here. Be nice to each other.” 

Jeff’s heart began to race. He looked up at his father, who had put down his paper and was also staring at the three boys. “That’s them,” he said, tugging his sleeve. 

“Come on,” his father said, standing and folding his paper. Jeff followed close behind him as they crossed the playground to the young woman. 

“Hi there,” his father smiled, extending his hand. “I’m Warren Clarke. This is my son, Jeff.” He put his arm around Jeff’s shoulders. “My son is homeschooled,” he explained quietly, as though he were telling her that Jeff had cancer. “He says a few weeks ago, he had a nice time playing with the boys you brought here. Would it be alright if he joined them now?” 

The woman smiled at Jeff kindly. “Of course.” Then she leaned into Warren. “They’re playing with water guns today. I’m not sure how you feel about that.” Warren grinned. “Where would I be today if my dad hadn’t taught me to shoot a water gun?”

The woman laughed, then kneeled next to the cart of toys and dug around until she found a red water gun. “Here you go, Jeff.” As she rose, Jeff felt someone run up behind him and tap on his shoulder. A sweaty Chris stood there, his two friends behind him. 

“I can’t believe it!” Chris exclaimed. “We thought you moved or something! Come on,” he pulled Jeff’s arm back toward the field. “We’re picking new safe zones now.” 

It was truly the best day of Jeff’s young life. No amount of toys or ice cream or television could come close to making him as happy as he was that afternoon. His father sat chatting with the young lady, and when Jeff would look over nervously, he was relieved to find that his father seemed to be having a good time, too. As the sun began to set, the boys gathered their toys and packed them back into the cart. 

“Hey,” Chris said to Jeff. “Do you like video games?”

Jeff nodded eagerly. “I got a Super Nintendo for my birthday last month.” Carter and Grayson, the two other boys, groaned in jealousy. 

“I just got one too. But my mom says I have to do chores if I want any games.” Chris shrugged. “I guess that’s fair. Do you have any games yet?” 

“I’ve been playing Super Mario.” 

Grayson nearly launched himself over Chris’s shoulder. “Can we come play?”

“Well, I gotta ask my mom first,” Chris interjected. 

“Ask her now!” Jeff practically shouted, jumping to his feet and pointing to the bench.

“Oh, that’s not my mom,” Chris laughed. “That’s Cynthia. She’s my au pair.” Chris cocked his head, studying the bench. “Is that man your au pair? Can men do that?”

“No, that’s my dad.” 

“Your _dad_ came with you to the park?” Carter asked, his eyebrows creeping up his forehead. 

Jeff shrugged. “He always does on Sundays.” 

“My dad doesn’t even come home for dinner,” Grayson said.

Chris looked determined. “Ok. I’ll ask my mom tonight, and Carter? Grayson? You ask your moms. If they say okay, then maybe my mom can call your dad?” 

Grayson shook his head slowly. “But... my mom is friends with your mom. _And_ Carter’s mom. I never get to go to people’s houses unless my mom is friends with their mom. I don’t know why,” he says, looking very concerned that this might stand in the way of Super Mario. Then his face lit up with an idea. “Maybe she already knows your mom! She knows a lot of people. What’s your mom’s name?” 

Jeff averted his eyes. “I don’t have a mom.” 

Carter burst out in laughter, but Chris punched him in the arm. “Shut up, Carter! You’re the one who _loves_ Stacy and _she_ doesn’t have a mom; she’s only got two dads.” Carter’s face redded. Chris turned back to Jeff. “I’m gonna see if your dad will give us your phone number.” 

On the walk back home, Warren told Jeff that he had actually met Chris’s mother long ago; he was on the host committee for a Whitney Art Party one year when Chris’s mom had served as Chair. Later that night, Jeff overheard his father take a call in the library that he was sure must have been from Chris’s mom. They arranged to have Chris, Grayson, and Carter dropped off on Friday afternoon. Jeff ran upstairs, pulled the book out from under his bed, and kissed the cover. Somewhere, his real mom and dad had finally, really, truly answered his prayer. Before bed, he carved _Hope_.

He carved and he carved, performing his secret ritual for years, until the underside of his bed frame ran out of space. By then, he was a couple years older, and he wasn’t afraid of a little blood. So he started to carve directly into his thigh. His dad saw the scars, of course, but he never did say anything — never told anyone, and never once punished Jeff for it.

* * *

And Jeff never told his dad’s secret, either — not even to Chris, to whom Jeff was connected at the hip. Jeff believed that his dad eventually trusted he never would, and he was right: even long after the abuse stopped, Jeff never said a word. 

And the abuse _had_ stopped, but with each passing year, the thing with the letter-opener got worse. He’d carved each one of those runes so many times that he had every line, every flourish memorized. The habit had become second-nature. He almost forgot why or how it started in the first place. All he knew was that if he cut himself, focused intently on carving those intricate little symbols into his flesh, his demons would quiet for a blessed moment. And if he cut in the right place, no one would even have to know. 

So Jeff had his secrets, and he was dead set on keeping them. He never would have risked closing up his world again — not after Chris had opened it up for him. Chris’s mom convinced Jeff’s dad to enroll him at Dalton with Chris, and though Jeff was quiet, awkward, and insecure, with the ever-popular Chris by his side, bullies never picked on him like he feared they would. Chris dragged him to parties on weekends, or to the movies after school, and soon everyone knew his name.

When they were fifteen, Chris’s family took Jeff along on their summer trip to the Hamptons. Chris already had a girlfriend back in the city, but every afternoon, Jeff would force him outside to sit on the beach with him so he could catch a glimpse of Ella. Almost daily, the petite brunette from Connecticut would lay out on the sand with her three sisters.

Chris sat bored next to Jeff and drew patterns in the sand with a small piece of driftwood. He looked up at Ella and then back at Jeff. “Let’s just go talk to them already.” 

Jeff shook his head furiously. “No way. What would we even say?” 

Chris shrugged. “Ask them if they want to hang out. Get ice cream at Scoop Du Jour or something.” 

Jeff considered this. “Nah. It’s okay.” He felt a lot more comfortable pining after Ella from afar than he would up close. At least in his daydreams, he couldn’t be rejected. 

On an evening soon after, Jeff had just gotten off the phone with his dad when he saw Ella walk up the beach toward Chris, who was sitting alone at the outdoor fireplace. Jeff stood at his second-story window and watched how easily Chris talked with her, jealousy rising in him. Then Chris pointed up toward Jeff’s window, and he ducked out of sight. He crawled back to the window, pushed it open a crack so he could eavesdrop on their conversation. 

“Yeah. Jeff is awesome. Hey — you guys should go watch the fireworks on the fourth. I’m gonna be visiting my girlfriend that weekend, but he’ll be free.” Jeff knew this to be a lie; Chris’s girlfriend had dumped him two nights ago.

The next afternoon, Ella asked Jeff if he’d be interested in going to the Fourth of July fair with her. Disbelieving, he just barely managed to reply affirmatively.

And at the end of the summer, when she gave him his first kiss in the shadow of the privet hedge bordering her summer home, she smiled shyly and made a confession. “Did Chris ever tell you? I tried to ask him out.” She interlaced her fingers with his and leaned against his shoulder. “It’s a good thing he has that girlfriend,” she whispered. “I wouldn’t want to be here with anyone else.” 

* * *

For college, Jeff turned down his father’s alma mater, moving with Chris to Princeton rather than Cambridge. But Jeff was never truly at peace — not after what he’d suffered — and as time went on, carving symbols no longer gave him the relief it once did. So senior year, it was Chris — back from two weeks of travel with the Baseball team — who found Jeff with his wrists slit in their off-campus apartment. After graduation, Jeff decided to return to New York and enter a treatment facility rather than enroll in business school with Chris. That time, it was Chris’s turn to decline Harvard, opting instead for NYU Stern — thereby keeping his best friend close.

In the six months he spent at the treatment facility, Jeff learned a great deal about depression, anxiety, and self-harm. He learned about the dopamine released when he cut himself — how in all likelihood, he had become addicted to it. Those days, no one came to visit him except Chris; those days, Chris was the only one who talked to him like he wasn’t irreparably damaged. 

Jeff wanted to believe he could be fixed. He struggled hard to get better. He was put on medication, and after a few false starts, a combination of prescriptions finally emerged that helped immensely. Sure, he never revealed upfront to his therapists what his father had done to him. But he’d come clean about the cutting. And he stopped reliving the horrors of his childhood as often. In time, he told himself, maybe he could even forget. 

After he left the facility, he never carved another one of those runes into himself again — and he only ever had the urge in the most stressful of circumstances. 

He did keep the letter-opener on him, though. Just in case.

* * *

When Jeff turned 34, his dad was diagnosed with stage four lung cancer. His decline was swift — nearly instantaneous. He wanted to die at home, so he spent his final days receiving palliative care in his Manhattan townhouse. 

One night near the end, Jeff went to sit beside him. Warren was his only family, and in spite of everything, Jeff had loved him. Warren took his hand, tears spilling down his face and onto the pillow. “Will you forgive me, son?” he begged, his voice weak with every kind of pain there was. And Jeff had nodded. 

Jeff sold the Manhattan townhouse almost immediately. He never wanted to spend another night in that place again. There was a safe in his dad’s study that he knew about, but was too afraid to open; he didn’t want to know what kinds of secrets his dad needed to keep in a personal safe, rather than with his lawyer or in a bank. 

After the movers left and only a small group of cleaning staff finished up in the foyer, Jeff could delay it no longer. He opened the safe and found, to his surprise, only one item: a large envelope. In it, there were two file folders: one contained a yellowed piece of paper with a handwritten phone number and the word “adoption,” and the other, a stack of monthly invoices, marked ‘Paid in Cash,’ to a company in the Cayman Islands. _Are these two things related?_ he wondered.

After that, it took a long while and the work of two extremely expensive private investigators to find out where Jeff really came from. The phone number was disconnected and untraceable, and it turned out that there was no official record of his adoption at all. Even Jeff knew his birth certificate was forged: it listed Warren as his birth father. It was as if the person Jeff _really_ was was never born — never adopted, never _existed_ — and that was fitting, he thought morosely, because he was treated like he never mattered.

The break came when the investigators identified who owned the shell company in the Cayman Islands — the one to which his father had been making large, monthly cash payments. Through this channel, the investigators uncovered the existence of the private adoption agency. Jeff learned he’d been born to a sick mother and a wealthy married man, then promptly sold to the highest bidder — and that years later, Warren was blackmailed by the very agency that arranged the adoption.

Jeff didn’t feel right wallowing in self-pity — not when he’d inherited hundreds of millions of dollars. Maybe he still screamed in his sleep, couldn’t perform sexually with any of the women he’d loved, and had (allegedly) almost punched a man to death at a club in SoHo last year without even remembering it — but it could have been worse, he told himself. Certainly it was for hundreds of thousands of other abused children.

Still, he desperately wanted to know who he was. And he wanted to know what went wrong. 

* * *

So two years ago, when the private investigators finally tracked down his birth mother, Jeff called Mary and hopped on a commercial flight to Monterey. She was waiting in the garden of her Carmel cottage when his car pulled up, and she burst into tears at the sight of him. She hugged him fiercely, in a way he’d never been held before. In that instant, Jeff knew his mother had no idea what giving him up had put him through. He squeezed his eyes shut, tears stinging, and the rune for _Love_ flashed brilliantly in his mind’s eye. Without even being asked, he forgave her right there on her porch steps.

She brought him into her living room, took out a photo tucked away in an old book. For all their efforts, the investigators could never track down the name of his biological father, and so for the first time in his life, he sat looking at the man’s face, noting how he had the same sapphire blue eyes and fine hair. Jeff touched James Stafford’s image with his finger like he’d touched the rune for _Family_ in that old picture book, so many times before. 

“The book I had when I was a baby?” Jeff asked Mary. 

Mary nodded. “Your father had the same one as a child. It was his favorite, but he lost it. He had me look high and low for a copy. We won it at auction shortly before I learned I was pregnant. I’m sure he didn’t mind that I wanted it passed on to our son,” she smiled, her eyes watery. 

“What happened to him?” Jeff asked. 

“He passed away. A few years back. He was much older than I was.” 

Jeff nodded. The investigators had confirmed that Mary was admitted to Bridges, a residential facility for the mentally ill, around the time that Jeff was born — and that she stayed there for decades after. He didn’t want to pry, but he felt he had the right to know.

He began slowly. “I was told that you were ill. That’s why you— why I was put up for adoption.”

Mary shook her head. “Oh, no. I was never ill. You see, your father was married to someone else when we were together. He didn’t love her,” she said firmly. “He never did. But when I told him I was pregnant, he was afraid his wife would retaliate. He was so afraid, in fact, that he pushed me from a cliff — right out there, across the Bay.” She said all this was such impassive ease that it frightened him. “Then, he told the doctors I tried to kill myself,” she sighed. “He felt so bad about all that.” 

“I refused to have an abortion,” she continued, “and he flet so guilty for what he tried to do to me — to _us_. So he put me into the care of a private agency: I would receive confidential prenatal care — because you know, your health was my top priority — and once you were born, I was assured you would be adopted out to a well-to-do family, who would love and care for you. And look at you! It was true.” 

“So— you gave me up? I wasn’t taken from you?” 

For the first time since he arrived, Mary’s smile sent a chill down his spine. “No, I agreed to it. You understand, don’t you? Unfortunately, James told me that our relationship would be over if I didn’t comply. He told me if I gave up the baby — if I continued to live at Bridges, and ended communication with his family members — then our relationship could carry on. And how I wanted that, Jeffrey. I would have done anything for him. He was a smart and successful man, and so kind; he knew what was best for us.”

“He— he tried to _kill_ you, Mary.” 

“That was a mistake. Heat of the moment,” she explained brightly, waving it off as though all he’d done was bump into her in a supermarket. “That’s how love _is_ , Jeffrey,” she said didactically. “And we were very much in love. Emotions ran high.” She smiles wistfully.

“But... _did_ your relationship continue? Weren’t you locked in that mental institution for decades?”

Mary’s eyes darkened. “I was at Bridges for years, yes, but not against my will. And James paid for everything. He came to see me in the hospital one night a week — for years. Until he became too busy with work.” 

“Until you became too old, you mean, and he found himself another mistress,” Jeff derided bitterly.

Mary stared at him silently, her forehead creased.

Jeff sneered. "I'm just guessing, Mary, but that's typically how these things go. Am I wrong?" 

“He— he bought me this house, you know, and when he passed, he left me the large parcel of land down the street. It’ll be yours one day. It’s— it’s worth millions. I called James’s lawyer right after I heard from you; he said it can go to you after I pass on — and with no paper trail at all.” 

“No paper trail,” he repeated. _Like I don’t even exist_. 

Fury erupted then, vented from all the fissures chiseled into Jeff’s heart over time. “I don’t need millions, Mary. I _have_ millions. So is that all you cared about? The money?”

Mary shook her head vigorously. “Of course not. He _loved_ me. Can’t you see that?” She extended her arms, indicating the house around her. “He took care of me.” 

Jeff glared at her with disgust. “He took care of _you_ ,” he spits. “But not me. And I guess I should feel lucky for that. His way of ‘taking care of you’ was pushing you from a cliff and locking you up when you didn’t die.” 

Mary clenched her teeth. “You will not speak about your father that way.” 

Jeff put the photo down on the coffee table and stood to leave, but he hesitated near the door. 

“What if I told you it _wasn’t_ a happy childhood?” He turned to face her, tears welling in his eyes. “That it was as far removed from one as you could _possibly_ imagine? That I was raped, repeatedly, for _years_ , by the man you and James allowed to adopt me? That he paid a million dollars to buy me like I was a possession — like I was a _thing_?” Jeff’s voice broke. “That I have felt invisible, worthless, my _entire_ life?”

Mary looked incredulous. “James would never have allowed...” She shook her head. “I don’t believe any of that,” she said defiantly, her jaw set.

“Well _if_ you did,” Jeff pleaded, hoping beyond hope that his own mother would have it in her to _see_ _him_. “Would you still have given me up? Would it still have been worth it to you? Just…” he swallowed, searching for the words, “just so that you could carry on your pitiful affair for those few extra years?” 

Mary never responded. 

As the sun set over Carmel Beach later that evening, Jeff sat on a wooden bench, pressing the tip of his gold letter-opener to his forearm. It would be so easy to fall off the wagon.

 _But no_ , he thought suddenly, a new conviction taking shape. He wasn’t depressed; he was _finally_ seeing clearly. He didn’t need _relief_. What he needed was _justice_. But did he have it in him?

Jeff glanced around, and found the beach deserted. He lifted the letter-opener off his skin and carved into the arm of the bench instead. _Courage_. With every line he cut into wood, he felt a rush of something much more powerful than dopamine. 

* * *

When Jeff returned to Mary’s house in the night, he slipped easily through a window propped open for the ocean breeze. Mary clearly had a lifelong habit of being too trusting.

As he strangled her, he imagined all the peaceful nights she must have had in this storybook cottage, in this idyllic town, along this beautiful beach. It took longer for her to die than he thought it would. So he passed the time by thinking of how many other children suffered the same fate as him because a baby was conceived and everyone was too selfish, too greedy, and too morally bankrupt to give two shits about what happened after it was born. He wondered about the agency, trafficking babies and blackmailing pedophiles — about how much money must be involved for them to continue to get away with it. 

After, he performed his old ritual. He carved his mother’s rune into her nightstand. _Love_. He said a prayer for the other victims. And he imagined what he must do to put a stop to it.

* * *

Later, Jeff builds a house on the lot his mother left him — something as far removed as possible from the fairytale aesthetic of Mary’s cottage and James’s Windy Cove. He kept the parcel because from this spot, he can see the Stafford Estate directly across the bay. 

Over the course of the next eighteen months, when he loses his nerve — when he thinks he’d like to move past all this, try to be happy, try to be even a _bit_ less angry and _finally_ forget — he comes to Carmel.

For each visit he makes, he carves another rune next to the first one he left on the bench. _Courage. Courage. Courage. Courage._ He prays for the courage to continue on. 

Then, he sits on the porch of his beach house. He stares out at Windy Cove. And he forces himself to remember it all.

  
  



	37. Chapter 37

_Xx Before Then xX_

When Chris was nine years old, his Little League team just barely lost at the regional finals. He cried openly right there on the field as the other team piled on top of each other in celebration. When he looked into the stands for his parents, he found his mom wringing her hands together, heartbroken for Chris. But the look of disgust on his dad’s face radiated long after he’d stood and walked off. At first, Chris thought his dad was angry that his team lost. But in the helicopter on the way home, his dad, silent up until then, finally turned to him. “You were the only one crying like a baby,” he shouted over the chuff of the rotor blades. “Do you know that?” 

Chris resolved never to cry in front of his dad again.

Fifteen years later, while in business school, Chris’s girlfriend Isabelle found out she was pregnant — right after she broke up with him, which made the situation so much worse. She told him she was pregnant, and then promptly stopped answering his calls. He had no idea what she was planning, and no idea what he should do next. He had always known he didn’t want children, and he was in no way prepared to be a father at 24.

He showed up at his parent’s townhouse, an emotional wreck, and dissolved into tears right in front of his dad. Chris would always remember the scornful look on his dad’s face. He'd never know for sure what caused the revulsion — if it was the fact that he got someone pregnant out of wedlock, or just his embarrassing display of weakness. 

His dad told him he’d take care of it, as long as Chris let him deal with it his way. Young and privileged and still prone to thinking everything unexpected was the end of the world, Chris agreed gratefully. He sat in front of his dad’s desk, his head in his hands. “But— she'll be okay? You won’t… make her do something she doesn’t want to?” 

It was the wrong question. “How dare you even ask me that,” his dad sneered. “She’ll be free to do whatever she wants — and whatever she decides, _luckily for you_ , I’ll be the one who makes sure it’s like it never happened." He stood and made for the door. "And that's the last question I'll be answering on the topic."

Chris never saw Isabelle again, save for photos on Page Six. 

_Xx Before Now xX_

Twelve years later, having almost written himself off as forever unlucky in love, he met someone so different, so unimpressed by his wealth that the novelty felt like a sign from above: she had to be the one. She wasn't LA gorgeous, but she was beautiful. She was elegant, intelligent, independent, and importantly, she didn’t want children. His only healthy relationships — few and far between — had all ended over this one irreconcilable difference.

It was apparent that Dana was recovering from a serious breakup, but she never offered any details. He coaxed rather than courted her. She made him work for it. She was beyond hesitant, whereas he was persistent. After a year and a half of that coaxing and six months of asking, she finally agreed to move in with him. 

Now, Dana was in the process of unpacking her final moving boxes. He watched her from the door of the walk-in closet, feeling victorious. As she sat on the floor unraveling a cashmere scarf, Chris asked what she wanted to do for dinner. He looked over her shoulder at the pile of suede gloves, thick scarves, and woolen turtlenecks before her. “Why even keep those?” he joked. “It’s January and it’s 70 degrees outside.” 

Dana shrugged without turning. “I’m sure I’ll need to go back to DC now and then. Headquarters is there. And Quantico.” There’s a beat. “Anything is fine for dinner. You pick.”

He bent down and kissed the top of her head as his phone began to ring.

It was the last decent moment of his life. 

The call was from someone he didn’t know, but who knew one very important thing about him: he knew what happened with Isabelle’s pregnancy, when Chris himself hadn’t the faintest clue. The stranger told him plainly that his father had enlisted an agency to bring Isabelle’s baby to term and adopt it out confidentially. Then the man explained — before Chris could think further on the ethics of that arrangement — that Chris was on a hit list. 

“What?” Chris whispered harshly into the phone, shutting himself behind his office door. “What the hell is this about?” 

“People are being murdered in Southern California,” the man said. “By a serial killer.” 

“I know that, but what—”

“It’s come to our attention that the victims are our clients. And you’re one of them.” 

“But— but who?” Chris stammered. 

“We don’t know, obviously. But we _do_ know your girlfriend works for the FBI. We hear she closed the Williams case, and she will likely be the one responsible for finding that out. Now, listen carefully: we need this issue taken care of quickly and quietly. We can’t have the FBI looking into what we do. The longer these murders go on, the greater our risk of exposure.”  
  
Chris leaned against the door, his knees weak and his mind racing with a thousand questions. 

The man on the phone went on. “So you have two options. One: you keep us informed of the FBI’s progress, bring us enough information to identify the killer — which we’re certain we can do before they can — and we take care of him ourselves. In this scenario, the problem goes away for everyone, and the only person hurt is the murderer.”

“Option Two: you don’t help us, you wait for the killer to find you — or maybe you tell the FBI about this call — and we come after Dana. I assure you, Chris, we’ve gotten away with a lot worse over the years; we’ll have no problem getting away with this.” The stranger paused then, as if considering. “The latter option is clearly less attractive, don’t you think?”

After the call ended, Chris ran to the guest bathroom and threw up into the tub. 

He took the next day off, called his dad and screamed into the phone until his throat was raw. Chris had never wanted to be the kind of man his dad was — but now, Chris realized that the things he knew about him were probably the _least_ despicable parts of the story.

“Did you even stop to consider what could happen? This is an illegal, _money-making_ operation.”

“Son,” his dad sighed, “You were sitting here sobbing like a little girl. It seemed like it was an emergency.”

Chris felt lightheaded with rage. “And— and what exactly happens to these babies, dad? Did you ask? Do you even care? For fuck’s sake — who do you _think_ the highest bidders are?”

“ _You made a massive, idiotic mistake, Chris_ ,” his dad roared into the phone. “And _I_ fixed it for you. You should be _thanking_ me. It cost me an arm and a leg. No one could have predicted a _serial killer_ would get involved.” His dad snorted. “Pull yourself together. The solution is simple: just do what they say, and it’ll take care of itself. And watch your language.” 

Chris shook his head; his dad cared more about profanity than he did about human trafficking. That seemed about right. He was about to hang up before his dad, now in damage control mode, offered to help conceal Chris’s assets off-shore — “in case things went south.”

That phone call was a little over two weeks ago. The fifteen days that followed felt more like fifteen miserable years.

They called only twice. The first time, while Dana slept, Chris copied her presentation slides over to his laptop and sent them along with any autopsy and police reports she had downloaded. The second time, he informed them that Dana was flying out to investigate a potentially related murder in Carmel. 

When Chris called Jeff to ask if Dana and her colleague could crash at his Carmel house, Jeff — perceptive and sensitive without fail — knew something was bothering Chris. 

Chris sighed. “I just miss you, man.” 

“I haven’t seen you in ages,” Jeff lamented. “I thought when I moved to LA we’d see each other every day, but I think I saw you more when I lived in New York,” he chuckled. “Are you worried about Dana? I read in the paper yesterday that she’s working on that serial murder case.” 

“Yeah. It’s tough...” Chris replied evasively, then changed the subject. “But how are you? How’s the job? What’s it been — a year and a half? It’s clearly still keeping you busy.”

“It’s exactly what I need right now.” A pause followed. “Are you sure you’re alright?” 

“I don’t know,” Chris answered honestly. “There’s a lot going on. Maybe we could get dinner or something when I’m back in LA?” 

Jeff assured his best friend that as always, he’d be wherever he needed him, whenever he needed him.

And now, Jeff knew Dana was one important step closer to figuring out who he was. 

* * *

After the police called about the alarm at their house, Chris kicked himself for leaving town. Even though in all likelihood it was nothing, Chris _knew_ a serial killer was after clients of the agency, and that he was one of them. He shouldn’t have left Dana alone.

But he hadn’t been sleeping, and he was so anxious and strung out that he couldn’t think straight. He went along with his travel schedule as if on autopilot. Besides, he had an appointment with Lee Siegelson himself to look at engagement rings; if he rescheduled, it could take months before there was another opening. And Chris was _so_ looking forward to spending just _one fucking hour_ planning for something good, rather than preventing something terrible.

When Dana called to tell him about the carving on her nightstand, he’d thrown up again as soon as he got off the phone — this time, in the guest bathroom of his Manhattan townhouse. He sat on the marble floor with his head in his shaking hands, trying to catch his breath. _You’re going to get her killed, one way or another_ , Chris chastised himself. And he couldn’t even be there to protect her. He needed to do something.

He called Jeff. It was the middle of the night on the East Coast but still an acceptable hour in California. Hysterical, he explained to Jeff that the serial killer the FBI was tracking was after Dana. He begged Jeff to watch over her for him until he got back. 

“Just until I get there tomorrow morning,” he pleaded. “I’d feel so much better if, if I just knew someone…” He trailed off. All of a sudden, he felt like he’d fallen through thin ice. He started to sob. 

“I’m so sorry,” Chris choked out, his breath hitching. “But Jeff— Listen to me: if you do this, you need to hang back from her. If he sees you following her, he might come after you. I— I don’t know how any of this works,” he said, his voice quaking. “I can’t put you in danger, too.” 

Chris left out the part about his personal entanglement with the agency. 

Playing his part, Jeff pretended he was a good friend, and agreed. He pretended he wasn’t — at that very moment — sitting in his car outside of Chris’s house, watching an agent he didn’t recognize put his arms around Dana. He pretended it wasn’t already his plan to follow her wherever she went next. 

The hardest part, though, was pretending that last night, while searching old files for his next victims, he _hadn’t_ come across Chris’s name — hadn’t seen what happened with Isabelle, that vapid ex-girlfriend of his, and their son — who last month, hitchhiked from Atlanta to Florida just to lay down on the tracks in front of a freight train. 

Chris was his _one friend_ , and it turned out he had been one of them, all along. This was a whole new kind of betrayal.

So on the phone, Jeff pretended he was just as terrified as Chris was, when in reality, he _reveled_ in his suffering. He could have easily killed Chris and Dana in their sleep, but that would have been too generous. He wanted Chris to suffer — to live in fear, the way _he_ had his entire young life. The way Chris’s son had. Jeff knew from experience that living in terror was much worse than the untroubled nothingness of death. 

Xx _Today_ xX

Jeff is finishing his second Red Bull just as the clock on his dash turns to 7:30am. He’s staring at the entrance to the Courtyard hotel when his phone rings.

“Jeff, oh my God, thank _God_ , I need your help. Please. It’s Chris.” 

Jeff smiles to himself. Chris sounds completely unhinged. 

“I’m in the air now, but— but I can’t get a hold of Dana. I’ve been calling and texting all morning — nothing. Are you at the hotel? Do— do you know where she is?” 

“Yeah. I went straight to her hotel last night like you said. I saw her go in around midnight. Nothing happened all night. I haven’t seen her leave yet.” He pauses. “It looks like she’s staying with another agent.” 

“Agent Mulder, right. I picked him up with Dana on the way to the airport. I’m so glad someone is with her in there. Jesus,” he exhales, “you were out there all night. I owe you big, Jeff.”

Jeff is starting to wonder if he somehow missed Dana leaving the hotel. That would really put a wrench in his plan; he’d already placed his one GPS tracker on Agent Mulder’s car, but if he and Dana separate, Jeff could lose sight of her. He assumed they’d _have_ to leave the hotel together, since Dana left her car at home. But maybe not?

Jeff is suddenly furious with himself. He let his wrath get ahead of him. Dana knows about Mary; it’s only a matter of time before she figures him out. And now that he’s left that fucking carving on Dana’s nightstand, the FBI knows to keep a close watch on her. He needs to get her alone, and soon. He can’t afford to lose his tail on her. 

“Uh, it’s no problem, Chris. Why don’t I go up and check her room. Do you have her room number?” 

He plans to knock on Dana’s door and slip into the ice machine alcove so she won’t see him when she answers. But no one comes to the door. _Shit_. Maybe he _did_ miss her leave. He knocks again. Waits twice as long. Nothing. 

A cold sweat breaks out at his neck. For the first time since he started this, he feels like he’s losing control. He needs to take care of her before she takes care of him, and he wants it to happen _today_. 

He rushes down the hall to the elevator, but just as the elevator door closes, he catches a glimpse of Agent Mulder in his boxers stepping out of Dana's room and into the hall, looking in the opposite direction. 

* * *

Jeff pulls into the FBI field office parking lot right behind Agent Mulder and Dana. He immediately takes a right turn to head around the corner of the building so they won’t see him. A car reverses in front of him and blocks his path, putting him in plain view while he waits for the car to complete its turn out of the spot. 

“Come on, come on,” he mutters anxiously, turning his head away to conceal his face. He takes a quick look in their direction, and his heart stops. They’ve parked and exited the car, and he’s positive he sees Agent Mulder looking directly at him. Could he have recognized his car from the hotel lot? Or from the street in front of Chris’s house last night? _There’s a million silver Range Rovers in LA_ , he reasons. But now is not the time to be blasé. 

Jeff phones Chris and tells him he thinks he’s being followed. “It could be the killer,” he tells him with feigned panic.

“Fuck,” Chris swears under his breath. “You need to switch cars now, Jeff. Not a rental. He could follow you to a rental office and see you do it.” Chris pauses, thinking. “I leant my car to Dana’s assistant, but our firm’s drivers sometimes leave their work cars at the garage…Maybe you could take one of those?” Then abruptly, “You know what? That’s exactly what you should do. The garage is keycard access only and manned by a security guard, so if he _is_ following you, he won’t be able to see you switch cars.”

 _This is perfect_ , Jeff thinks. For once in his miserable life, he can hardly believe his luck. Maybe if he disables Agent Mulder’s car, Dana will have to call for a cab at some point — and he could be the one who picks her up. Those car service vehicles all have radios, right? 

“Head to my office now,” Chris instructs. “Text me your license plate number. I’ll call garage security and tell them to let you in. Security also has the keys to the drivers’ cars. I’ll let them know you’ll be taking one.”

* * *

In the latter half of his flight, after getting off the phone with an audibly panicked Jeff, Chris thinks he’s seeing clearly for the first time since this whole thing started. Dana is in danger — and now Jeff is in danger — because of something that _he_ did.

It wasn’t his decision to get involved with this blackmarket agency. But if twelve years ago he had just taken responsibility for his mistake rather than run to his daddy like an entitled brat, both Dana and Jeff would be safe right now.

Since he took that phone call two weeks ago, he’s only made things worse. Even if his scheming is successful — if he helps these monsters find the murderer, and they get rid of him without the FBI — it wouldn’t change the fact that this shadow agency _exists_. It would still be open for business. And he’s quite certain it shouldn’t be.

Chris clenches his jaw. He has to make this right. He might end up in jail, but he’s going to have to tell Dana everything. 

A car picks him up on the tarmac. As he heads to Dana’s office, he mindlessly looks through the mail Janet placed on the back seat. An envelope from someplace called NovaIVF is near the top of the stack. His brow furrows and he opens it, then scans the first few lines:

_This letter acknowledges receipt of your request to transfer the following:_

  * _Reproductive Materials: cryopreserved mature oocytes (ova)_
  * _Amount: 15 of 15_



_Property of:_

  * _Husband: Fox W. Mulder_
  * _Wife: Dana K. Scully_



_Payment for the transfer has been made in full by:_

  * _Fox W. Mulder_



_Please confirm your new mailing address and select an approved facility from the list below._

Chris sees red. And maybe it’s just the excruciating stress of the past two weeks — his exhaustion over his unceasing, heart-wrenching concern for Dana while _she’s been spending her nights with her secret husband_ — but in that moment, reason is the farthest thing from his mind.


	38. Chapter 38

_Xx Now xX_

When she regains consciousness, Scully finds both her hands and ankles zip-tied, the former to the leg of a large stone dining table, and the latter to a dining chair. 

Her head throbs and the room spins. In her half-lucid state, she thinks about how this is the oddest hostage scene she’s ever been a part of — and unfortunately, she’s been a part of many. There’s nothing quintessentially ominous — no dark shadows or rusty chains or dirty cement. Instead, she’s lying on a reflective, off-white marble floor under a bright domed ceiling. A frosted skylight casts a comfortably warm stream of sunshine over her. Outside, she can make out a large patio enclosed by a tall sandstone wall, and she can hear the ocean just beyond it. The sky is blue and cloudless. She’s pretty sure that’s a genuine Matisse resting over the fireplace mantle. A Cire Trudon diffuser sits on a lucite coffee table, making the place smell like a spa. 

Oddest of all, her now ex-boyfriend sits tied to a chair at the far end of the room. She raises her head. 

“Dana,” Chris rasps, and she can see his mouth is bloody, his right eye swollen shut. “You’re awake. Thank God,” he coughs, fresh blood appearing at the corner of his mouth. 

“Where are we?” she asks him. “What— what’s going on?” 

She tries hard to recall her most recent memory. The driver, telling her the car was dangerously overheating — asking her to step out of the car.

“This is all my fault,” Chris whispers. “I should have told you everything.” 

Scully looks up, alarmed. “What are you— Chris? Chris, look at me. Are you involved in this?” 

Chris’s head hangs and he doesn’t move to lift it. “Sort of. Yes. The serial murders—” A coughing fit overtakes him. 

Scully shakes her head, tries to to fight past the nausea and make sense of what he’s saying. “You’re involved in the murders?” she whispers, disbelieving. 

“The killer— It’s Jeff.”

Scully’s forehead creases in utter discombobulation. “Who?”

Jeff steps into the room holding two bottles of water. _Chris’s best friend_ , she realizes. He is hands-down the most depressingly dejected hostage-taker Scully has ever seen. He looks over at Scully and sees she’s awake. He appears torn — like he doesn’t know how to feel about that.

He walks over to Chris, twists off the top of the bottle and holds it to his mouth so Chris can drink from it. Scully listens for the break of the seal to make sure the water isn’t contaminated. 

She still doesn’t understand. Even if Jeff is the killer, why the hell is Chris here? 

Jeff walks over to Scully and extends the second water bottle to her wordlessly, but she shakes her head. “No thank you.” 

Scully has never met Jeff, but from everything Chris has told her about him, he’s a stand-up guy. Right now, his reluctance is written all over his face. That’s something for her to work with. 

“Jeff,” she tries calmly, sympathetically. “Could you tell me what’s going on?” 

To her surprise, he collapses onto the floor next to her, sitting with his legs crossed like a child. “I’m sorry,” he apologizes. “I wish it didn’t come to this.” 

“It’s not too late,” Scully tells him evenly. “Why don’t you tell me what’s going on.” 

For a long moment, Jeff stares blankly at the water bottle in his hand. “Do you know? About the adoption agency?” 

Scully nods, trying to read him and afraid to say the wrong thing. She hears Mulder’s voice in her head: _He probably thinks he’s doing good._

“It’s horrible,” she tries, hoping she’s guessed right — hoping to connect with him.

Tears well in Jeff’s eyes and he glances away. “You have no idea.”

Scully sees the picture forming. “You were one of them, weren’t you?” 

Jeff hangs his head in his hands and Scully glances past him to Chris. “Did Chris know?”

“I didn’t know anything, Jeff. I swear to God.” 

“ _Stop fucking lying to me_ ,” Jeff bellows over his shoulder, and Scully jumps. Jeff scrambles to his knees and lunges over Scully. She tries to shield herself but he passes right over her and grabs a gun from the table above her head. He spins and waves it at Chris. “I saw your file! You hired them! I _know_ about Isabelle. Do you know what they did to your son, you sick piece of shit?” 

Chris’s head lolls back down again, his chin to his chest. Jeff’s arm is trembling, the gun held limply. When Chris doesn’t respond, Scully starts to fear he’s lost consciousness. 

“Jeff,” Chris begins, not looking up. “You’re my oldest friend. You know me better than my own parents. You _know_ me.” He lifts his head, flinches at the sight of the gun, then meets Jeff’s eyes. “I need you to believe me. I’d never get involved with something as dirty as that.”

As suddenly as his rage surfaced, it drains from him. Jeff looks lost, like he went to sleep in his bed and just woke up in the middle of a hedge maze. He looks around the room. Scully wonders what it is he’s searching for.

He sits back on the floor, lazily scoots backwards until he’s leaning against the sofa. He pulls his knees up to his chest, hugging his legs, the gun still in his hand. He stares at Scully. 

“They started decades ago, when abortions were illegal. But then that well dried up. So they sell babies, I guess. Not just to rich couples who want children. They sell them to pedophiles.” 

Chris’s head shoots up with such force that the legs of his chair crack against the floor. “What?” he croaks, horrified. “Deliberately?” 

Jeff turns to him, his eyes narrowed. “What did they tell you? When you signed up?”

Chris shakes his head, his expression pained. “I didn’t. It was my dad. You know how he is. I didn’t know anything until two weeks ago. I— I don’t know what I can say to convince you.” 

Jeff studies Chris, and Scully is quite certain she can see Jeff starting to believe him.

Jeff turns back to Scully and rubs a hand over his face tiredly. “They say they don’t keep records, but they do in those cases. They use the records to blackmail the abusers, and sometimes they even blackmail the birth parents.” His head falls back against the sofa. “It makes sense: the birth parents were desperate to sweep a mere unwanted pregnancy under the rug; they’d be even more desperate to cover it up if they knew their baby was sold to a pedophile.” 

He looks back at Scully. “My guess is they make more money from the blackmailing than they do from any other... department.” 

“Jeff.” Chris calls, his face wretched. “Is that what happened to you?” 

Jeff doesn’t turn — just chews the inside of his cheek as a tear spills from the corner of his eye. 

“Why didn’t you ever tell me?” Chris’s voice breaks with emotion. “Come here.” 

Scully watches, stunned, as Jeff crawls over to Chris and lays his head in his lap, sobbing. Tears track down Chris’s face, anointing Jeff’s sweaty hair.

When Scully was in middle school, her youngest brother Charlie was bullied so severely that he came home once with a broken arm. She thinks of that now — of how Jeff looks the way Charlie did as their older brother Bill comforted him, promised to protect him. Jeff may be a murderer, but her heart aches for them both.

“There’s no stopping them,” Jeff cries jerkily as he tries and fails to catch his breath. “I didn’t know— What else could I do, Chris? There’s no good way to put an end to it.” His hands ball into fists. “They own too many powerful people. They have too many resources.”

Scully is trying to decide how best to contradict him without angering him further when there’s a soft knock on the glass patio door. Everyone startles and Jeff scrambles for his gun. 

Mulder watches with his hands up, waiting for Jeff to retrieve his weapon. “I’m unarmed,” Mulder shouts.

Jeff trains his gun on Mulder, trying to steady his aim with both hands as his whole body quakes wildly. “Stay back,” he instructs, so quietly that Scully’s unsure if anyone else heard him. Her heart races, but Mulder appears calm and composed. In that, she finds a shred of solace. 

“I’m just here to talk, Jeff. You’re Jeff, right? I’m Mulder.” 

Mulder glances quickly past Jeff looking for Scully, and though a serial killer is pointing a gun at him, Mulder’s entire body relaxes when he finds her awake and sitting up. 

“Like I said,” Mulder continues, “I’m unarmed. Maybe you could let me in. We can talk this through — find a way to get everyone what they need, without anyone getting hurt.” 

Scully holds her breath while Jeff considers. Eventually, his arms lower and he drags himself over to the door to let Mulder in. _He wants a way out of this_ , Scully wants to believe.

“Thank you.” Mulder enters with his hands raised. “Where would you like me to stand?” 

“Um,” Jeff looks around, “You can sit over there. In that corner.” Mulder goes over to the corner opposite Chris and sits on the ground, his back to the wall. 

Mulder looks at Chris. “Chris? Are you doing ok? Can you breathe tied up like that?” 

Chris is looking down again, humiliated. He nods. 

“Ok.” Mulder says calmly. “Jeff? Talk to me.” 

Jeff just stares at him wordlessly. Mulder can see he’s registering that he’s surrounded — that he’s not getting out of this. He needs to make sure Jeff doesn’t decide to turn him, Scully, and Chris into his final cautionary tale.

“I think I might already know a little,” Mulder starts carefully. “I think something very wrong happened to you. I think you’re a victim.” Again his eyes dart to Scully’s. “And I think all you’re trying to do is make things right.” 

Jeff chews on his lip, and a small line of blood blooms beneath his teeth. 

“Please,” Mulder says. “We want to help you with that. But you need to tell us what happened before we can do anything.” 

Jeff hesitates, but once he begins to talk, he can’t seem to slow. It’s apparent he’s shouldered his secrets for so long that he’s practically eager to say them aloud. He tells them about Warren, and about the abuse. He tells them about uncovering the agency and its off-shore shell companies. Finally, he recounts his visit to Mary, and his decision to murder her.

Chis watches him with watery eyes. “I can’t blame you, Jeff. I can’t blame you for any of it.” 

Jeff looks exhausted, his eyes half-closed. “It was easy enough to get a job as a caseworker,” he continues. “Money is what made me invisible in the first place, so I just used a bit more of it to buy myself a new identity: someone with a blue-collar background, someone with a lot of debt. Someone who wouldn't risk rocking the boat.” 

“You started the job eighteen months ago?” Scully asks, and Jeff nods.

“But the couples you chose?” Mulder prompts. “Four of them were long gone when you started as a caseworker.”

“I found them in old files. I had some limited access to the regional files after I got the job, then I hired someone to hack past their encryption for more information; it was so basic she hacked past it in less than a day. I looked for the couples being blackmailed.” He sighs. “Those were people who knew the whole truth, including where their babies ended up, and they _still_ paid their way out of accountability.” He shakes his head sadly. “They could have tried to stop it.” 

“What happened with Chloe and Michael?” Mulder asks. “She just gave birth. They weren’t being blackmailed yet, were they?” 

Jeff stares at the gun in his hand, looking as though he’s sliding into a comatose state. “Chloe and Michael. Yeah. Those were mine. I really thought she would change her mind. I followed their movements after the birth. I caught her alone at the Promenade — told her the truth about what was going to happen to her daughter.” He’s quiet for a while. “She told me to leave her alone — said I was violating the contract by contacting her. She threatened to report me.” 

Mulder and Scully make eye contact as Jeff lays himself down on the marble floor, as though he’s planning on taking a nap. “I thought…” Jeff trails off, stares up at the skylight while resting the gun on his stomach. “This wasn’t just about revenge, you know? Yeah, those people deserved to die. But what I really wanted…”

“See, I thought there were two possible outcomes. One: the murders cause chaos; the word gets out amongst the inner circle about the murders and maybe even the blackmailing, and people just stop hiring them. Or two: when law enforcement looked into the murders, they’d uncover what was happening — and if the murders were high profile enough, maybe even _corrupt_ cops and politicians couldn’t shield them; maybe they’d finally be taken down.” He’s silent for a long while. “But I don’t know,” he concedes, his words barely audible. “I guess it was a long shot.” 

“Jeff?” Scully calls, and he turns his face to look at her, his cheek resting on the cold marble. “You say they can’t be stopped — that they’re too powerful.” 

He shrugs. “I guess I was the only one angry enough to try.” 

Scully shakes her head slowly. “I don’t know.” She looks at Mulder, then at Chris. “We’re all pretty angry. We haven’t suffered like you have… but I don’t think any of us are going to let them get off without a fight.”

Chris straightens in his chair. “Dana, listen. This is what I was going to tell you when you woke up. This agency — they called me two weeks ago. That's how I found out about Isabelle. They told me I was on a hit list — that their clients were the targets of a serial killer. They threatened your life — said I had to funnel information from your investigation to them, so they could find the murderer and kill him themselves — _before_ you found out they existed. They said if I didn’t agree, they’d come after you.” He swallows, still pained by the prospect.

Scully gapes at him. "Why didn’t you tell me? Why would you—”

“Because I’m selfish, and— and a fucking fool; I thought if I complied, I could make it all go away. But today I finally realized that the only _right_ solution is to shut them down entirely.” 

Chris looks down at Jeff. “So I called them this afternoon, right after I left the field office…” he glances awkwardly at Mulder, embarrassed, “and after I got my head out of my ass.” 

“I recorded the call — to use against them. I told them I was calling because the FBI would be making an arrest. They wanted to call me back on a secure line in half an hour, but I told them there wasn’t time — it would be happening any minute now, and they had to move fast if they wanted to silence the guy before the FBI picked him up. They bought it; I think they were panicked. I fed them false information and then made them promise that once it was all over, they wouldn’t go after Dana like they threatened. It seemed like a good idea — to get proof of the threat?”

“Okay, but hold on,” Mulder interjects. “Where did you send them?” 

“Oh, right. I told them the murderer lived in some random apartment number, and that I’d drop them a pin of the building address after we hung up. But then Jeff called me right after. I turned off my phone and went to meet him.” 

Jeff is now sitting up, watching Chris, but Chris is looking back and forth between Scully and Mulder, his expression pleading. “That recording, combined with the files Jeff has. Can’t— can’t we do something with that?”

Mulder and Scully look at each other and Mulder nods. “We can,” he says confidently.

“We will,” Scully corrects. She watches Jeff as he stares blankly out of the glass doors in the direction of the water. “Jeff?” 

She waits until he turns to face her.

“That’s a promise. I will expose them. I will take them down. I’m giving you my word.” 

Jeff makes a thorough study of her, then nods — though he doesn't seem fully convinced.

He looks back out, then up at the sky. His thumb rubs almost imperceptibly back and forth over the trigger of his gun. Mulder knows Jeff is considering putting a bullet in his brain; he readies himself for action, his mind rapidly working through the best ways to stop him if he tries. 

But then, Jeff speaks. “There are others waiting outside, aren’t there? To take me in?” 

Mulder hesitates, then nods. 

“We will fight this,” Chris vows, but Jeff shakes his head. 

“I killed people, Chris. There’s no coming back from it.” Jeff inhales deeply, his forehead creased in contemplation, his eyes still trained on the sky.

“Somehow, despite everything… the worst part of all of it was when I thought you were one of them. You: the only person who ever made me feel like I mattered — the only person I thought I understood, and who understood me.”

Sorrow carves deep lines into Chris’s face, and Scully thinks he looks twenty years older.

“Remember in college? When I slit my wrists?” Jeff asks like he’s asking if Chris remembers the weather last weekend. “This was kind of the same thing, I think. I wanted to destroy the world because I didn’t think there was any hope of righting it.” 

He looks contemplative, almost peaceful. 

“Well,” Jeff sighs, finally turning his gaze from the sky and onto Chris. “I’m glad in the end, there’s still you.” 

Slowly, he places the gun down on the floor and slides it over to Mulder. 

“That’s something,” Jeff whispers, possibly just to himself. “That’s hope.”

  
  



	39. Chapter 39

Mulder radios Julie to stand down. He asks for as small of a police presence as possible. He leads Jeff out in handcuffs to a car waiting in the driveway, then watches as it rounds the corner out of sight.

He hurries back into the house, propelled by an urgent need to be close to Scully. He weaves between crime scene techs and paramedics, already scurrying around the scene. Just as Mulder walks in through the glass patio door, paramedics cut the zip ties from Chris and he stumbles over to Scully despite their protests. He kneels beside her, takes her face in his hands and kisses her forehead. “I’m fine,” she insists quietly, giving him a tired smile. “Let me see that.” She pushes back his hair, inspecting his head wound. 

Mulder hangs back and swallows hard, watching them. He leans against the glass wall, crosses his arms, and opts for studying his shoes instead of the surrounding action. This interlude in his life is over, he realizes. By tomorrow, Skinner will expect him on a flight to DC. By Monday, he'll be back in the basement, alone. _The Lone Cypress_ , he muses, exhaling a mirthless snort of laughter at the image of him clinging for dear life to the top of a mountain of unsolved X-Files and Morley cigarettes. 

Julie and Mark appear on either side of him, but he doesn’t raise his head. Their eyes drift over to Chris and Scully, who resemble lovers caring for each other after an escape from a burning building. Julie looks at Mark, and to him she seems almost forlorn. It occurs to him that Julie is rooting for this guy, and though he doesn’t fully understand why, warmth blooms in his chest.

Julie squeezes Mulder’s arm. “You did good, Mulder: everyone is safe; the perpetrator is behind bars. You should be proud.”

He shakes his head. “I didn’t do anything. It was all Scully and Chris in here.” He glances up at Julie, then at Mark. “And you guys, before that.” He attempts a smile.

Julie debates contradicting him, but she knows that isn’t what he wants to hear right now. An agent at the far end of the room calls her over and she excuses herself.

Mark leans against the glass next to Mulder. “So earlier today… When Dana left the office. She was coming to see you. To…” Mark trails off, the end of the sentence escaping him. 

Mulder looks up at him. “To?”

“I’m not sure, to be honest. Maybe to tell you she ended it with Chris?” He sighs. “I probably shouldn’t tell you this, but for some reason, Julie thinks she was going to— I don’t know— tell you she wanted to…?”

Mulder turns to Scully. She meets his eyes over Chris’s shoulder, and Mulder’s heart lurches. They both try for a smile, but neither seems convincing.

“Chris is a good guy,” Mulder concedes. “Better than I thought. Maybe better than _she_ thought, before this.” He accompanies the word ‘this,’ with a gesture around the crime scene. Mulder heaves a sigh. “I never seem to know what’s best for her.”

Mark considers holding his tongue, but doesn’t. “I don’t think that’s for you to decide.” 

Surprised and a little pleased by Mark’s audacity, Mulder’s eyebrows lift and there's a faint tugging at the corners of his mouth. “You’re right,” he agrees. “You’re absolutely right.”

Mulder stares at Scully openly, longingly. He wants her; he always has — suspects he might have been looking for her his entire life without knowing it. She’s it for him. But this isn’t about what he wants. It’s about what _she_ wants. And he needs her to make that decision on her own.

Outside, the sun is setting, casting a warm glow around the room. Scully gets to her feet with Chris’s help, and he clasps her hand in his. They do a careful and precarious walk over to Mulder and Mark. 

Chris extends his hand to Mulder, who shakes it without hesitation. “Thank you. For saving us. And I— I’m so sorry about before. There’s no excuse. I just… saw that letter, and I...” He dips his head, ashamed. 

“It’s fine. I understand,” Mulder reassures him, and he means it. He thinks of this morning, in bed with Scully — of all the ways he’s behaved poorly because his overpowering love for her drove him temporarily insane. He’s not innocent. None of them are. Mulder watches Scully dab at an open cut on Chris’s cheek.

Finally, she turns to Mulder. “I’m going to head to the hospital with Chris. I think we’re ok, but with these head wounds, we should both be checked out more thoroughly.” 

Mulder pushes himself off the wall. “I’ll take you?”

“No,” she replies, and he can’t tell if she said it with haste, or if he’s just being overly sensitive. “No, it’s fine. We’re going to take one of the ambulances.” 

Mulder nods slowly. A paramedic passes and Scully stops him. “Can you take Chris out with you and get him settled? I’ll be there soon.” 

As Chris limps out the door, Mark starts a surreptitious slide away from Mulder and Scully. 

“Hey, you,” Scully snaps at him, and he tenses. “Am I allowed to ask what you’re doing here?” she smirks. 

Mark sighs dramatically. “I know, I know. It’s past five. I promise I’ll log the hours for comp time.” He sounds like a teenager who’s been caught coming home past curfew.

Scully lifts an eyebrow. “I see Julie’s been teaching you sarcasm.” 

Mark smiles cooly and sidles off.

They watch him retreat for a moment before Scully turns back to Mulder. He aches to touch her, but he’s keenly aware that all of her subordinates are in this one, relatively small room. Instead, he shoves his hands into his pockets and they stand in silence. It seems she doesn’t know what to do next, either. 

“What now?” he asks her quietly. 

He’s not sure how, but he already knows what she says next won’t be exactly what he wants to hear.

Her eyes sweep over his face leisurely, taking him in. They land on his lips. “I’ll call you.”

She reaches out and squeezes his hand briefly before making her way to the exit. 

* * *

Julie observes this interaction from afar. She’s not a romantic; in fact, she tries very hard to be anything but. So she never in a million years would have seen it coming, but she feels a tingle in her sinuses and tears in her eyes as Dana walks out the door, Mulder staring after her and physically deflating with each step she takes. 

“Special Agent Julie Owens, getting misty-eyed?” Mark whispers in exaggerated disbelief as he comes up behind her. 

She whirls around and punches him in the arm — not lightly. 

“Goddamn, you’re strong,” he winces, rubbing his arm. 

“I just feel bad for them.” She shakes her head, looking back at Mulder. “I wish they could just work it out — whatever it is.” 

“Well," Mark sighs, "This might just be one of those things.”

Julie looks annoyed. “One of _what_ things?” 

“One of those _trust the universe_ kind of things,” he mutters, studying Mulder’s back. He stands at the glass, looking up as the moon materializes in the half-illuminated twilight.

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So it goes without saying that this is approaching its end. I just finalized the total chapter count at 43, and we're entering the final "phase" of the story.
> 
> To everyone who’s taking the time to read this — and especially to the people who have given me encouragement and said such nice (albeit probably undeserved!) things: thank you so, so much. I think I’ve said previously that I wrote this without the intent to share it: it was just a personal COVID project I started six weeks ago. I was truly conflicted about posting it here — like it was grossly presumptuous to assume anyone out there would find any enjoyment in reading it. 
> 
> Ultimately, though, it seems *I’m* the one who reaped enjoyment from sharing it, because you shared your time with me. It’s been a shitty, lonely year that seems to keep getting worse. So connecting with you — whether you’ve messaged with me directly, or you read this story without any engagement at all — means a lot. 'A lot, a lot.' 
> 
> XXX


	40. Chapter 40

_xX Three Months Later Xx_

Scully takes the same early morning flight out to Monterey that she took with Mulder. Before she switches her phone to airplane mode, a text from Mulder pops up. It’s a picture of his crotch, coffee spilt all over beige khakis. 

> **MULDER |** EXCELLENT MORNING OVER HERE HOWS YOURS 😎😎😎😎😎😎😎😎😎😎😎😎😎😎😎😎😎

She smiles to herself. 

> **MULDER |** I can feel you smiling
> 
> **MULDER |** I will have you know this is your fault
> 
> **MULDER |** YOU told me I needed to wear more color
> 
> **MULDER |** I’d be wearing black pants if it weren’t for you
> 
> **MULDER |** I think my balls are burnt 😭
> 
> **SCULLY |** Beige isn’t a color. 
> 
> **MULDER |** I hate you

After she powers off her phone, she wonders — not for the first time — if Mulder knows she’s no longer with Chris. She assumes he must by now. But he hasn’t mentioned it, and she’s not sure if that means he doesn’t know, or that he thinks she doesn’t want him to know. There’s also the possibility that he simply doesn’t care — that he’s moved beyond the prospect of them ever reconciling. God knows he’d have every right.

When she parks the rental car in downtown Carmel, she snaps a photo of the main street. She walks past the boutiques and sidewalk cafes to where the road turns into a beach parking lot. She locates the bench she was told to wait at, then sits and texts the picture to Mulder. 

> **MULDER |**???? No fair
> 
> **SCULLY |** I’ll explain later. Talk tonight?

He doesn't have to say yes, because he always answers. 

* * *

“You have the look of a woman who’s in search of something,” Portia says as she walks up to the bench. 

Scully turns to face her, smiling. “Just you.” 

Portia eyes her skeptically as she takes a seat next to Scully. “Looks more like it has to do with matters of the heart.” 

Scully smiles and shakes her head, amused.

“Was the flight up alright?” 

“It was. Thank you for the ticket.” 

“Thank _you_ for coming.” 

Scully waits for Portia to tell her what this is about. 

“I went to visit Jeffrey. In prison.” 

Scully’s eyes widen. “Wha— Why?” 

Portia looks up toward the sky as if thinking. “I wanted to know the whole story. I’ve been getting fragments of stories all my life, from people I thought I knew in full — my father, Mary, my own husband. There was so much missing from my understanding of them.” She turns to Scully. “So I know all of it. About the affair, about how my father pushed Mary from the cliff, about what she was willing to do to keep him interested. About the agency.” 

Scully studies her. “Are you angry?” 

Portia considers for a moment. “I’m angry with my father...” 

Scully discerns Portia isn’t finished answering her question. “And Mary?” 

Portia sighs wearily, like she's asked herself this a thousand times and still doesn’t have the answer. “I can’t make excuses for what Mary did. It was inexcusable — horrible. But I keep coming back to the fact that Mary was just nineteen when the affair started. Whatever the law says about legal age, I _knew_ her: she was a child — more like the sixteen year-old I was, than an adult.” She shakes her head. 

“When Mary came to us, she’d just left her family's farm in Idaho. She had minimal education, no place to live, and no source of income other than my father. Even putting aside the age difference, she was vulnerable to him — powerless relative to the wealthy, learned, established man he was. He took advantage of that. And he carried on with her, Dana — _after_ he locked her up at a mental institution she _didn’t even belong in_.” Portia inhales a calming breath. 

“Mary was complicit, I know. But my father wanted her powerless. Or more likely, he wanted her _because_ she was powerless.” Portia looks at Scully. “What kind of a man calls that a relationship? Wants someone who has so little say in whether or not she wants him back?”

Scully smiles sadly. “There are a lot of those men.” She thinks then of Mulder — of how long he patiently waited for her to make up her mind to want him back. Perhaps he’s _still_ waiting.

They sit in silence for a moment. 

“Did you ever find out what happened with Mary’s house? The one my father purchased under my name?”

“Yes. She left it to a local domestic abuse non-profit. We found out later that she’d been making use of their food pantry.”

Sadness fills Portia’s eyes, and she looks down at her hands.

“Your father left her a beautiful, valuable home,” Scully explains, “but nothing to cover her living expenses, let alone the property tax and maintenance.” 

Portia takes a few seconds to absorb this. There’s something in that sad fact that mirrors the hollow nature of their affair: outwardly shiny and fanciful, but forever waning — devoid of any genuine commitment or care. 

They watch a pelican dive into the water and come up empty handed. Portia leans back against the bench. “Mary was thirty when she had Jeffrey. A grown woman, fully responsible for her own choices. Even at 66 years old, she regretted nothing; she essentially told Jeffrey that _knowing_ what happened to him, she’d nevertheless do it all over again, for my father.” She pauses. “And yet I can’t help but wonder... who would she have been if she hadn’t met us? Hadn’t lost those critical years of early adulthood to this— twisted power dynamic? Would she have felt more empowered to choose what was right over what was wrong? Or would she have been just as selfish and morally flawed?” Portia’s forehead creases. “And what of Jeffrey, Dana?” She sighs heavily. “Who would he have been, if he hadn’t been a victim?” 

Portia looks off at the ocean. “I want to believe,” she says tentatively, “that if we all treated each other well — if we didn’t take advantage of each other, and we all did what’s ‘right’ — we’d all have room to grow into good people. But I know that’s not true.” She sighs. “That’s the simplistic fantasy of a young girl who grew up never wanting for anything. In reality, good people have competing interests, and what’s ‘right’ can be so many different things. Victims grow into good people, and the privileged into monsters.”

“All this to say, I’ve been trying to make sense of it all — but I don’t know where to place fault, or how much blame should be assigned to whom. I can only work with what I believe. And what I believe is that what my father did was wrong. I _wish_ I could have stopped what happened to Mary, and what happened to Jeffrey because of Mary, and what happened to the murdered couples, and all the other children who fell victim to this agency that my own father promoted.” She inhales deeply, exasperated. “For that matter, I wish I could have stopped whatever happened to _my father_ that made him the person he was.”

“But I can’t change the past. At this point, I can only contribute to the future.” She reaches in her tote and pulls out an envelope, handing it to Scully. Inside, there’s a $22 million check. Scully looks up, startled. 

“Jeffrey told me about the nonprofit that was established — to provide support to children of abuse. He told me you know the founder. Chris Marshall?”

“Um, yeah…” Scully manages. 

“I sold Windy Cove. For a place that’s known so much evil, it’s time it did some good. After expenses, that’s what’s left. Besides, Jeffrey is my father’s son, too. I felt some inheritance was in order.” She smiles, though the sorrow behind her eyes doesn’t fully dissipate.

“Call me old fashioned, but I didn’t feel safe sending a check that size in the mail; I hoped you could deliver it to Mr. Marshall for me. It’s part of the reason I asked you to fly up. But more importantly,” Portia covers Scully’s hands with hers, “I wanted to see you again. To say thank you.” 

Scully shakes her head. “Unfortunately I don’t feel like I brought you any good news.” 

Portia laughs quietly. “You didn’t. But you brought me the truth. And that’s a lot more valuable.” 

An older man, a worn nylon windbreaker around his thin frame, comes ambling down the beach path. When he sees them from a distance, he squints, then a grin breaks across his face that makes him look twenty years younger. He waves both his arms over his head, and Portia waves back, color rising in her cheeks.

“Hmm. Is that the first love?” Scully asks, smiling. 

“He was a detective, you know,” she says conspiratorially, and Scully lifts an eyebrow in interest. “With the SFPD. My mother told me if I married him, I’d live in fear every day of my life — that every night I’d wonder if he’d come home alive. And I would have,” she admits. “But my mother, for all her dogged insistence on peace-of-mind, probably never had any. Or at least she shouldn’t have — not when she was married to my father.” 

Portia tilts her head, as if considering this for the first time. “The thing I didn’t realize back then is that you can live with fear, and at the same time, be happy.” She smiles at Scully. “If you have courage. Well, and if he’s the right man.”

“But how would you know?” Scully asks before she can stop herself. “If he’s the right man?” 

Portia’s brow furrows as she thinks — no doubt of _wrong_ men, like her father and her ex-husband. “Well... I suppose you’d know because the right man wouldn’t _cause_ any of the fear, now would he? He’d just be the thing that makes courage possible… and worthwhile.” 

* * *

The retired detective says what an honor it is to shake Scully’s hand, and his earnest praise makes her blush. She watches as the couple strolls hand-in-hand back toward town. 

She wonders then if maybe her problem has always been courage. She’s been _brave_ her whole life — this, she knows. But what she felt for Mulder — what she _still_ feels for him — that terrifies her. It always has. It’s like nothing she could have imagined: it tears her open, leaves her unguarded, unfolded and exposed. 

It’s not a feeling to which she’s accustomed.

After opening that bill from NovaIVF two years ago, in an instant, her world came crashing down around her. In loving someone as much as she loved him — in being as happy as she was, and in living a life so inextricably intertwined with someone else’s — she walked a tightrope; the mere suggestion of a misdeed had the power to ruin her, to send her plummeting. The fall left her shattered, and twice as fearful as before. So she’d left.

But now, she misses him. Only when he reappeared in her life did she realize she’d been living amongst dull and muted colors.

And there was another thing: their conversation on a Carmel sidewalk after breakfast, just a block up the street. Talented profiler that he is, Mulder was correct in his assessment: when she left him, she _had_ felt an underlying resentment that her life had been swallowed whole by _his_ quest, by _his_ battles. She told herself that because she let it happen, she lived in danger — and worse, the things she’d always told herself _she_ wanted — family, weekends, a four-bedroom house in the suburbs — had all been swept aside to make room for him. That first year in LA, she’d armed herself with that assumption, chastised herself for sacrificing so much of her identity — all over a _man_. She called upon that anger whenever she felt tempted to pick up the phone and dial his number. 

Since Mulder returned to DC three months ago, however, she’s been trying to be more honest with herself. She knows now it wasn’t _his_ fault her life became his; it happened because the life they lived _together_ made her feel alive beyond her wildest dreams — made her feel challenged and consequential. From the moment she walked into that basement years ago, the world was an entirely different place than what it was before. The things she used to want for herself — they _had_ been swept aside — but maybe not for him. Maybe they were abandoned because in this new, miraculously unknowable and formidable world, the things she used to want simply weren’t enough anymore. 

Still, she wonders if she’s brave enough to go back to it all — to live her life as part of a whole.

She breathes in the salt air and closes her eyes, soaks in the warmth of the sun on her face. She gives herself a moment.

Reluctantly, Scully stands to head back to her car. Her team in LA has been making quick work of rooting out this illicit adoption agency, and she's scheduled a progress report for 3pm that afternoon. If she doesn't want to miss the only return flight from Monterey to LAX, she need to be back at the airport in thirty minutes. 

She reaches down to pick up the envelope from Portia and something on the wooden arm of the bench catches her eye. 

She leans in, and on closer inspection, she knows what she’s looking at. She fumbles in her coat pocket for her phone, takes a picture, and sends it to Mulder. 

> **MULDER |** ? Where is this? 
> 
> **SCULLY |** A bench at Carmel Beach.
> 
> **SCULLY |** Which one is it?
> 
> **MULDER |** Hold on
> 
> **MULDER |** I have my notes give me a sec 

Scully runs her finger over the carvings. She counts eleven of the same rune. Her phone vibrates with a text and she looks down at it to read the single-word message:

> **MULDER |** Courage

* * *

On the short plane ride home, she thinks more on courage — on the courage to do what’s right, and on the courage to do what's wrong. She thinks of how they can be dangerously similar, the line between the two diaphanously thin. 

Mostly, though, she thinks about Jeff — of how she wishes he’d seen then, as he prayed for courage, that courage is just one tiny step removed from hope. 

Courageously, Scully concludes that Jeff was wrong: there _is_ hope in righting the world — at least, her corner of it. 

  
  



	41. Chapter 41

Mulder has taken this lovely Spring Thursday off just to haul moving boxes up stairs. He places a box on the floor of the living room before Mark bumps into him from behind, unable to see past the box he himself is holding. Mark drops it with a thud. “That’s the last of it,” he says, wiping his brow with his forearm. 

Mulder presses his hands to his lower back and stretches. “I’m getting too old for this shit.” 

“Do you want a beer?” Mark offers as he heads into the kitchen. 

“You don’t have furniture but you have beer?” He hears two caps twist off before Mark reappears and hands him a bottle. Mulder sits directly on the hardwood floor and Mark follows suit. 

“I owe you dinner,” Mark says. “Anything good nearby?” 

“There’s a decent Chinese place a couple blocks away. Scully and I would do lunch there on days she was at Quantico. I think they deliver.”

Thirty minutes later, they’re using a moving box as a table and eating out of cartons. 

“When do classes start?” Mulder asks. 

“In a week. I think I can get this place set up by then,” he sighs tiredly, looking around. 

Mulder studies him for a moment, trying to decide if he should ask. “So what’s going on with you and Julie?” he ventures. “You haven’t mentioned.”

Two weeks ago, Mulder received a call from ViCAP; Julie had listed him as a reference. She apparently applied for a position in DC, and after inquiring yesterday, he was told she’d received an offer. He didn’t feel at liberty to tell Mark any of this, though. For all he knew, Julie had applied without him knowing and then changed her mind.

Mark shakes his head, a pained expression emerging. “Yeah. She uh— she’s not big on long distance.” 

Mulder cringes in sympathy and Mark sighs. “I had my own bad experience with it in college. So I guess I should feel the same.” 

Mulder takes a swig of beer. “But you don’t,” he states rather than asks. 

Mark shrugs and begins to pick at the label on his bottle. “What can you do?”

“Well obviously _I_ wouldn’t know.”

There’s a beat before Mark goes on. “When she dropped me at the airport last night, she said she needed a little more time to think. To be honest, I was surprised. I mean I know it’s only been a few months, but… I don’t know. I thought things were good.” He chews on his lower lip. “Actually I thought things were _really_ good.” 

Mark’s brows furrow and he pulls out his phone; it’s somewhere between the 30th and 40th time Mulder has seen him check it. “She said she’d call me today,” he mumbles quietly. 

When Mulder left California, Scully had said she’d call him, too. And she had — almost daily. She’d also text throughout the day, usually just the odd inside joke or to ask his opinion on something related to her investigation. He heard from her with such regularity that if she hadn’t touched base that day, he’d sleep with his phone on his pillow, just in case.

That was another thing he was doing lately: actually sleeping.

At the moment, Mulder's favorite pastime is tricking himself into believing Scully is his long-distance girlfriend — mostly so he won’t feel so pathetic as he spends his evenings scrolling through their text history and grinning like an idiot.

But in all their hours of conversation, she never once mentioned the alleged breakup with Chris — and he was too chicken shit to ask. Given the frequency of her phone calls, he can’t _logically_ believe she’s still with Chris... But in his weaker, more insecure moments, doubt still manages to creep into the recesses of his mind. 

On their last call, Scully informed Mulder that Jeff pled guilty — against the wishes of his high-priced lawyers — and was sentenced to life in a low-security prison — thanks to said high-priced lawyers. As for Chris, Mulder had learned his sentence in the paper: because his recorded conversation with the illicit agency played a significant role in their exposure, he was granted a lenient three-year probation after paying a $500k fine. 

Mulder also knew that Chris took a hiatus from his VC firm to launch a nonprofit aimed at providing confidential support to children of abuse. In addition to the seed money Chris supplied, the organization would be funded by what remained of Jeff’s estate after civil litigation. Mulder knew this because Chris had asked him to sit on the board — which he’d politely declined, instead suggesting a more qualified acquaintance at the DOJ.

That morning, while downing a mug of coffee before meeting Mark, Mulder scanned a mass email update sent to all the agents who worked on the Jeffrey Clarke case. Mulder’s eyes caught on a specific sentence: _Deputy Director Dana Scully, leading the investigation into the child trafficking network, has thus far overseen the arrest of over 55 men and women; that investigation remains active for the foreseeable future._

It’s not like he expected her to show up back in DC once the case concluded, but still — reading that there was no end in sight made his heart sink a notch.

“How’s Dana?” Mulder asks, knowing Mark is too tactful to bring her up on his own.

“She’s good, I think.” Mark observes Mulder carefully. “I’m sorry to have to ask, but what do you know?” 

“About the investigation?”  
  
“About her and Chris.” 

Ice floods Mulder’s veins at the sound of those names in the same sentence. He’s not sure he’s ready to hear whatever Mark is about to say. He puts his beer down, readying himself.

It dawns on Mark that Mulder might actually be completely in the dark. He puts him out of his misery. “They _did_ break up, Mulder. She moved her things out before he even got out of the hospital.”  
  
Mulder remembers to breathe. “Really?” 

“I— I kind of can’t believe you didn’t know,” Mark stammers, eyes wide. “Isn’t she like, constantly on the phone with you?”

Mulder lets out a long breath. “Well, it’s what I figured…” He shakes his head, confused. “But why wouldn’t she just tell me?” he whispers to himself. Whatever the reason, it can’t be in his favor; if she wanted him back, she’d have told him by now. _Right?_

“I had dinner with Chris before I left,” Mark tells him. “Well, with him and his new girlfriend.” Mark’s eyes flick to Mulder’s, then away. “She’s on the board of his foundation — a child psychologist, teaching at UCLA.” 

A guilt-shaped weight Mulder almost didn’t know he was carrying begins to lift. 

“I think it’s already serious. Chris said he never wanted kids before, but now he’s coming around because of her.” Mark chuckles then, shaking his head amusedly. “When she went to the bathroom, he told me he was so sure she was the one that he didn’t even cancel his engagement ring order.” 

Mulder smiles, picking up his beer. Mark looks off into space, and a tinge of melancholy at the edge of his voice. “It must be nice — being the kind of person who can love so easily.”

They sit in silence for a while, two brilliant men tethered to women they can’t seem to live without. Wherever they go, the objects of their affection hover near them, omnipresent spectres born of longing — yet their true forms are simultaneously just out of reach, and thousands of miles away.

They wait.

Eventually Mark reaches for his fortune cookie. He cracks it open and reads his fortune, then lets out a miserable snort of laughter. 

Mulder looks up. “What’s it say?” 

Mark passes it to Mulder. _Your luck in love is about to improve_. 

Mulder’s eyebrows lift. “Well then. Here’s hoping.” He carefully places the little white strip of paper down on the box, smoothing it out gingerly like it’s a precious magic charm.

“You don’t want your fortune?” Mark asks, handing Mulder his cookie.

Mulder takes it, turns it over in his hand, deliberating solemnly as though he’s standing at the threshold to the Temple of Delphi. He smiles sadly and sets it back down. “Believe it or not, I’m pretty superstitious,” he tells Mark.

“Seriously?” 

“Yeah,” Mulder nods. “It’s better if I don’t know.” 

He moves to stand. “I should get going,” he says, stretching. “The case I’m working now — I have a... group of ‘informants’ stopping by my place tonight.” 

Mark blinks, alarmed. “These informants just know where you live? Is that normal?”

“Yeahhh,” Mulder replies, drawing out the word. “These three kind of know _everything_. I’m sure you’ll meet them at some point.” Mulder makes a mental note to order Mark a subscription to _The Lone Gunmen._

Mulder shrugs on his jacket. “Hey call me this weekend if you want. We can do something.” 

“I will.” Mark walks with him to the door and Mulder looks him up and down. 

“You’re tall. You play basketball?”

“Oh yeah I’m _super_ good at it,” Mark says sarcastically, rolling his eyes. 

When Mulder pulls the door open, Julie stands on the other side, a carry-on luggage behind her and her hand poised to knock. The three of them stand frozen, gaping at each other.

Finally, Mulder swivels to face Mark. _Fortune cookie_ , he mouths, then says aloud, “Maybe a raincheck on this weekend.”

“Good to see you, Julie,” Mulder smiles as he slides past her and out into the hall. 

* * *

Later, Julie sits cross-legged on the floor and holds up Mulder’s unopened fortune cookie. “Can I have this? I’m starving.” 

She rips it open and reads the fortune as she crunches on the cookie. She narrows her eyes at the strip of paper while looking back and forth between the one in her hand and the one on the box. She holds it up to Mark. “Do you think all of these just say the same thing?” 

Mark takes it from her hand. _Your luck in love is about to improve_ , it reads. He smiles to himself and places Mulder’s fortune down on the box, next to his. “I hope not.” 

  
  



	42. Chapter 42

Mulder wakes in bed, face down, to the sound of his cell ringing on his pillow.

“Frohike you fucking asshole,” he croaks into the phone, his voice rough with sleep. “You couldn't have at least texted? You guys were _five hours late_ when I gave up and went to bed.” He coughs. “I’m not letting you in.” But even as he berates them, he starts groping around with his eyes closed, searching for the t-shirt he shucked off before he passed out; he _does_ really need that flash drive they’re bringing him. 

There’s silence on the line. 

“I’ve got a question,” Scully says. 

Mulder manages to pry his eyes open, then rolls on to his side to check the clock on his nightstand. “Scully, it’s four in the fucking morning,” he pretends to complain. “You know about time zones, right?” He lands himself on his back and closes his eyes. 

“In Carmel you mentioned you weren’t sleeping anymore.” 

“I sleep fine nowadays.” 

“Hmm.” She sounds genuinely curious, like a doctor evaluating a patient. “Why do you think that is?”

“Don’t jinx it, woman,” he mumbles, smiling through a yawn. “You said you have a question. Shoot.”

He listens to her breathe. 

“What did you do today?” she asks, finally. 

“You called me at _4:22am_ to ask me what I did today?” He throws a forearm over his eyes. When she doesn’t reply, he sleepily relents. 

“I helped Mark move in. You remember Mark, right? The handsome fellow from your front desk?” His words slur together. “It’s not a good look, by the way — when your attractive, young assistant leaves his position in less than a year. People will cry sexual harassment.” He yawns again. “Don’t worry. I shut him up for you. Roughed him up a bit. He won’t talk.” 

“Wow,” she says, amused. "You’re not making any sense."

“I don’t have to. It’s _4:22am_ , remember?” He rolls back onto his stomach with a grunt. “Well now it’s 4:23. Really though, Scully, what’s up?” 

“Julie gave her notice today. She’s taking her two weeks as vacation so she can pack for the move to DC.”

He nods against his pillow, even though she can’t see him. “Mmhmm. Saw her today.” His eyes drift shut.

“Wait, really?”

“She was standing on the other side of Mark’s door when I opened it to leave. Seriously. That actually happened." He pauses. "I think I ruined a moment," he admits ruefully. 

“Okay...” Scully says, and Mulder thinks she sounds off — miffed? “Anyway, I was thinking…” She says, trailing off. 

Mulder opens an eye. “Yeah?” 

“I was thinking, this current case. This agency we uncovered — their network is all over the country. It almost doesn’t make sense to work it from LA.”

Now he’s awake. 

“For example, next month we need to fly a few of our agents all the way out to Great Falls. We think we've tracked down one of their regional offices there.” 

“Great Falls, Virginia?” He pushes himself up so he’s seated.

“You might have heard of it. It’s about 25 miles north of your apartment.”

Mulder’s heart thuds. Does she sound teasing? Playful? Well, as ‘playful’ as Dana Scully ever gets, anyway?

“Okay…” he starts slowly, hoping she’ll answer his next question unprompted. She doesn’t. “So um, are you— are you one of them?” His voice cracks and he clears his throat. “One of the agents coming out here, I mean?”

“No.” 

Mulder’s head falls back against the headboard with a loud thunk and he scratches the back of his neck, frustrated. “Uh, okay.” 

There’s a beat before she inhales sharply. “Are you— I… You sound disappointed.” 

Mulder pulls on his jaw with his hand. “I am,” he sighs. He’s actually so disappointed that he can’t even pretend otherwise; this kind of frankness about their feelings isn’t something they’re doing yet. Or maybe ever. “It would have been nice to see you,” he mumbles.

“Well…” she says. “I’m not coming out next month because I _might_..." she trails off. "See, the thing is, I talked with both ViCAP and NCMEC, and it seems like we all agree this investigation should _probably_ be run out of DC.” 

Mulder drags his hand from his face. “Look I know it’s 4:23 — 4: _26_ am, Scully, so maybe my brain just isn’t firing on all cylinders, but I can’t really follow what you’re saying.”

“Yeah,” she replies with a loud exhale. “That’s cause I’m not doing a very good job of it.”

He hears the embarrassed cringe in her voice and imagines her face right now. It's probably tinged with pink and very charming. He closes his eyes and leans back, then proceeds to imagine the rest of her — outside on the patio of her new, solo apartment, ideally back to wearing those comfortable pajama sets, her hair fluttering in a soft breeze. He hopes she can still smell the ocean at her new place, wherever it is.

Contented, he's beginning to drift off when she inhales audibly, interrupting his reverie. Her next words are decisive, like she's been rehearsing them all night: “I have to work this case to its end, Mulder; I made a promise and I intend to keep it. But I want to do it from Washington." She pauses. "And after that, I want to come back.”

His heart sinks. “Come back?” he repeats. “You’re saying you want to go back to LA when the case is done.”

“No. I’m saying I want to come back to the X-Files.” 

His eyes widen and his mouth hangs ajar. 

“If you want me to, of course. Because I’d understand,” she rushes to add, “if you didn’t.”

For a horrible second, he's forgotten how to work his mouth. “Scully…” he finally manages, but no other words come out. He's so wired with nerves that his hands are trembling.

There’s a sudden pounding on his door and he jumps. “ _Fuck_ ,” he whispers, covering his face and trying to stabilize. _Goddamn knocks on doors_.

“Scully, that’s the guys. Sorry. It's the case I was telling you about — they did some hacking for me on the servers at— well, you remember — and then they were supposed to get this flash drive to me— but like, five hours ago, so—”

He’s pulling on sweatpants with one hand and wondering how it is that just _five seconds ago_ he couldn't speak _at all_ and now he can't seem to shut up. “Um let me call you back— _WAIT_ , no, what am I saying, just hold on. It’ll just take a second. I really— I want to talk about this.”

He trips over his sneakers on the way out of his bedroom and jogs to the door. “You guys are so late,” he grumbles through the door as he balances the phone between his ear and shoulder, finagling the locks. “You have no idea how fucking inconvenient—”

The door swings open to reveal Scully, phone to her ear. 

Mulder’s eyes narrow suspiciously and he pulls back a bit. He ends the call. “Um… I already did this scene. Eight hours ago. With Mark and Julie.” 

Scully shrugs casually. “I didn’t know you’d be there when she showed up. If I did, I would have told her to come up with her _own_ romantic scheme. You know, instead of stealing mine.” 

Mulder lifts his chin a fraction of an inch, as though evaluating a new piece of evidence. Then he lunges forward, frames her small face with both hands and crushes his mouth to hers. He drags her through the door and kicks it shut so aggressively that the pictures on his wall jump. He presses her up against the door, his tongue rubbing roughly against hers as he reaches for the phone she’s clutching in her hand. He pries it out of her clenched fingers and throws both their phones across the room, where they skid on the hardwood floor. 

She laughs into his mouth, startled. “ _Mulder_ , no! What the—”

“We're not gonna be needing those,” he mutters between the open-mouthed kisses he lavishes down her neck. “We're unavailable. And not leaving the bedroom for days.” 

  
  



	43. Chapter 43

Mulder is frantic, like he’s breaking into a bank and the cops are already on their way. He pushes Scully backwards toward his bedroom, peels her coat off her shoulders and drops it on the floor, then jerks the hem of her blouse out of her skirt, running his hand up her bare ribs. Her pencil skirt is tight and restrictive, making her steps short. “I want you on the bed,” he growls impatiently, a dangerous look on his face. “These _fucking_ skirts.” He yanks at it so roughly that they hear threads tear. 

“ _Jesus_ , hold on,” she says, slapping his hand away and twisting to reach for the zipper at the back. “I have _one_ carry-on in my car and three outfits total. You can’t ruin anything.” 

“Bossy,” he sulks, licking along her clavicle. He continues to nudge her until the backs of her knees hit the mattress and she topples onto the bed. She hasn’t even managed to unclasp the hook and eye. “Time’s up,” he shrugs. Smugly, he starts to wrestle the hem of her skirt over her hips. 

“You can’t even get these off,” he criticizes with a smirk. “They’re stupid. You just wear them because you know they drive me crazy.” He slips one hand under her and squeezes her ass.

“You sure think a lot of yourself.” She arches an eyebrow, her look rebellious. She begins pushing her skirt back down. “Maybe this was a mistake,” she says haughtily, trying and failing to sound serious. “I’ll get a hotel.” 

“God, you’re the worst,” he chuckles, grabbing her hands to stop her from covering herself back up.

His hard cock tents his sweatpants and he looms over her, one hand braced on the mattress above her shoulder, the other nudging aside her underwear. She runs a hand over his torso, tracing the hard lines of his muscles. 

“How long have you been planning this?” he asks, then leans down to suck viciously at her neck. She won’t stop him this time. 

“What?” she rasps. 

“How long?” he slides two fingers into her and she gasps, arching her back. She reaches for the elastic on his sweatpants and pushes them down along with his boxers. When her hand encircles him, even he forgets the question. 

“Come here.” She tugs his hips and he places his knees on the mattress, proceeding to crawl up over her. Greedily, she grabs both his ass cheeks in her hands and pulls his pelvis toward her face with urgency. “Closer.” 

She reclines fully on the mattress. Her tongue darts out to wet her lips and he knows what she wants, but he has to remove his fingers from inside her first.

He sits up, sucks his fingers clean, relishing the taste of her. He walks himself on his hands and knees until his cock is bobbing directly above her face. He uses one hand to hold himself steady at the root, watching as she sits up slightly on her elbows and takes him into her mouth. 

" _Scully_ ," he chokes out, lurching forward. The one arm holding him up flexes, crumples the sheets in his fist. 

He looks down, his mouth slack and breathing hard. He's not doing any of the work; her nails, digging in to his ass cheeks, rock his hips back and forth, in and out of her glistening lips. _Great_ , he thinks. After all this wait, he’s going to lose it in her mouth while she’s still fully clothed. _But fuck, does this feel good_...

“Scully— stop, please,” he finally manages, though to both of them it’s transparently half-hearted. She ignores him, savagely and defiantly clutches his ass to prevent him from retreating. The salty taste of him is too good, too real. 

She swirls her tongue over the head of his weeping cock and he moans, squeezes himself reflexively. “ _Stop_ ,” he begs over a desperate exhale that borders on a sob. He releases his grip on himself and entwines his fingers in her hair, dragging her mouth off of him. She whimpers, wanting more.

“C’mon, Scully. _Now_." He withdraws back off the bed, rises unsteadily on quaking legs. He pulls her by her thighs to the edge of the mattress and yanks at her underwear. It rips easily, but she doesn’t seem to care; apparently she’s already forgotten her rule about treating her garments delicately. 

He stands between her legs and presses her knees apart, grips her hips over her bunched up skirt. He holds her down as he pushes all the way inside her. He doesn’t take his time. She cries out and both her hands scrabble for the edge of the mattress, seeking anchorage. _There it is_ , he thinks euphorically as he moves deep inside her, thrusting hard — them together: the only shred of perfection he's ever known. 

“You— been thinking about this too?” he grunts out through gritted teeth.

“Yes,” she breathes, her head thrown back, neck exposed. 

“Yeah? Touching yourself?” 

She nods and he groans.

“You’re gonna come this time,” he commands her, the words strained. “And take that off.” 

“What?” She asks, lifting herself to look at him. 

He releases a hand from her hip momentarily to clumsily seize the column of buttons on her blouse. “ _Take this off_.” 

She lays back down on the mattress, then unsteadily works to unbutton herself as her body jerks back and forth with the force of each plunge he makes into her. When her top finally falls open, he eagerly descends to lick the tops of her breasts peeking out over her bra.

Suddenly he realizes he’s completely naked while she’s almost entirely dressed. He’s unduly distressed by this imbalance.

He pulls out of her, wincing at the effort of extracting himself from her plush, tight clutch. He shakes his head vigorously, jaw set, his hands on his hips; it’s as if they’re heatedly arguing over whether or not this week's cryptid is the killer.

“Mulder?” Scully's eyes widen with concern. “Wha—”

“All of it: _off_ ,” he interrupts sternly. “You know— _Goddamn it_ , you were always half-dressed in California. It drove me fucking insane.” 

Obligingly, she unhooks her bra and peels it off with her blouse. She sits up and twists her skirt around, finally undoing the clasp and zipper. He reaches forward to help slide her skirt down her legs along with her underwear. He removes her pumps and tosses them in the corner, on top of his dirty laundry pile.

When he turns back to look at her — fully naked, sitting on the edge of his bed and pushing her hair back, her eyes dark with lust and her chest heaving — his heart seizes. Only then does it hit him in full: she’s finally home, right where he left her two years prior. 

He smiles. “There you are,” he whispers, like he separated from her at a grocery store and just found her. He kneels before her, wraps his arms around her waist and blinks back tears. She cradles his head to her bare stomach.

“Is this real?” He lays a sloppy kiss over her belly button.

She’s looking down at him, gently running her nails through his hair and over his scalp. 

He looks up, eyes pleading. “Yes,” she says simply. 

She helps him up then, pushes herself backwards until she hits the headboard, pulling him along with her. He crawls back up over her, presses his forehead to hers. He reaches for her necklace, fingers the cross pendant while he earnestly searches her face. 

“You’ll come back?” he asks, with so much hope that a deep ache of profound love permeates through every single part of her. Unable and unwilling to contain it, it cascades outward, rooting her here. “I’m not going anywhere.” 

Filled with awe and wonder, he re-enters her. _We’re gonna get it right this time_ , he knows, with the kind of certainty reserved only for the most devout true believers.

He looks into her eyes for the entirety of the rest of it, and insists she keep them open as she comes. 

* * *

When he wakes, Mulder reaches for her the way he’s done every morning since she left. He’s almost afraid to open his eyes, but his fingers brush the cool skin of her naked back and he smiles. 

He slowly and quietly gets out of bed and pads over to the kitchen. He starts the coffee, knowing how grumpy she can be in the early morning if she doesn’t have it right away. He _does_ like her grumpy, though. He pretty much likes her any way he can get her. 

On the way back to bed, he picks up her coat that he left discarded on the floor. An envelope drifts from its pocket to the ground. He retrieves it and turns it over. Reading the return address, he suffers a mild case of post-traumatic stress: it’s from NovaIVF, but this time, it’s _his_ name above her former LA address. The seal is already broken.

Should he read it? Well, it _is_ addressed to him, after all. He opens it:

_This letter acknowledges your request to cancel transfer of the following:_

  * _Reproductive Materials: cryopreserved mature oocytes (ova)_
  * _Amount: 15 of 15_



_Property of:_

  * _Husband: Fox W. Mulder_
  * _Wife: Dana K. Scully_



_A refund of $1512.40 has been issued to the following credit card on file:_

  * _Fox W. Mulder_
  * _Last Four Digits: 0707_



_Your reproductive materials will continue to be held at NovaIVF, Bethesda, MD. Billing for monthly storage fees will resume on the first of next month._

Mulder smiles to himself. A thought occurs to him then: maybe he _should_ get a second opinion — just in case it’s ever relevant in the future. At this moment, he feels like anything is possible.

“Did you read it?” Scully asks from the doorway of the bedroom. She’s apparently found the t-shirt he lost last night, since it’s the only thing she’s wearing.

He glances up at her, folding the letter and dropping it on his coffee table. “Yeah.” 

They look at each other for a long, meaningful moment.

Finally, he breaks the silence. “Back in there,” he orders, pointing behind her. “It’s still day one.” 

“But I smell coffee.”

He sighs dramatically. “Alright, alright, I’ll bring some in.” 

They sit on his bed against the headboard, her head against his shoulder. They stay like this for a while, steam rising from their mugs, the only sounds their peaceful breathing and the occasional car passing on the street below. 

Eventually, he sets his coffee down on the nightstand and throws his right arm around her. He runs his fingers through her hair, enjoying the way the silky strands slip between them — just like he remembers. 

“Why didn’t you ever tell me?” Mulder asks. “That you broke up with him?” 

She huffs out a laugh. “I assumed you could figure it out. Aren’t you some kind of trained investigator?” Scully tilts her head to look at him, then grows serious. She reaches over him and places her mug next to his before turning back. “After everything, I needed to be alone for a while — to think, so I could be sure of what I wanted. I just needed some time for that.” 

Mulder nods. “Then I’m glad you took it.” With the arm around her shoulder, he pulls her in and kisses her lips lightly. She settles back, and he resumes stroking her hair. “You know,” he taps her head, “before I went into the house in Malibu, Mark asked me what went wrong between us.”

“Hmm. What did you tell him?”

“The truth,” Mulder says frankly. “I told him that I made the mistake of thinking it was more important to protect you, than to let you make your own decisions.” He tucks her head under his chin. “I was talking about the ova, of course. But then recently,” he chews on his bottom lip, “I realized I was still repeating that same mistake.”

She looks up at him. “What do you mean?” 

“It devastates me — a _lot_ — Scully, whenever anything bad happens to you because you’re my partner. That whole time I was in California — and the whole two years before that, really — I kept telling myself to let you go — that I put you in danger, that you were better off without me. I thought if I really, truly loved you, I’d never _let_ you come back to me — or the X-Files — even if, by some miracle, you actually wanted to.”

“But…” his forehead creases and his head shakes slightly. “Wasn’t that just me thinking I knew what’s best for you, all over again?”

She contemplates this silently. 

“I wish being with me didn’t put you in danger. But it does. You know the risks as well as I do. So it’s not my place to tell you whether or not you should take that risk. What I should do instead is _trust_ you — honor your decision, whatever it is.”

He turns and dips his head so their eyes meet, pushes back her hair and tucks it behind her ear. “You say you took time — that you thought about it. That you wanted to be sure. So can I trust that your decision — to come back, to be here now — means you’re willing to take on…” he sighs heavily, groping for the words, “all the shit that comes with it?” 

She blinks twice, then climbs up on top of his lap to face him in full. She studies him. “In California, you told me you couldn’t give me safety, or stability, or peace.” Her eyes soften. “But I think you’re the only one who can give me happiness,” she tells him, a small smile on her lips. 

A tear slips loose from the corner of his eye. He swallows hard, still uncertain despite his best efforts. “Is that enough?” he whispers horsley, his voice breaking. 

“It’s _everything_.” She wipes a tear from his cheek with her thumb and he turns to kiss her palm. She shrugs nonchalantly. “I’m strong enough to live without the rest of it. As long as there’s you.” 

Scully straightens abruptly then, pulling back and scrunching up her face adorably. “But most importantly, Mulder: I’m _bored_. Regular crime just isn’t a challenge for someone like me. I mean _this_ shadowy organization? The one I’m _demolishing_ right now? Taking it down is a cakewalk.” 

She tilts her head to the side, considering. “You and me: I think we're meant to tackle something much, much bigger.”

_Xx End xX_

* * *


End file.
